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UUtlttVi"’ 


Day after day Johnny watched. 


Page 15 

















New 

Bed-Time Stories. 


BY 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 

u ' 

AUTHOR OF “BED-TIME STORIES,” “MORE BED-TIME STORIES,” 
“some women’s HEARTS,” AND “poems.” 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 



BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1880. 





By Louise Chandler Moulton. 


University Press: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 


TO MISTRESS BROWN-EYES. 


At Christmas-tide, by Christmas fire, 

You 'll read these tales of mine j — 

I see, above my story-book, 

Your happy brown eyes shine. 

Dear eyes, that front the future time 
So fearlessly to-day, 

Oh, may from thesn some kindly Fate 
Keep future tears away, 

A nd give you all your heart desires, 

My little English tnaid, 

For whom, in this far-distant land\ 

My loving prayers are said / 

I pray for Peace, since Peace is good, 

For Love, since Love is best: 

If prayers bring blessings, Brown-eyed Girl, 
How much you will be blest / 


August , 1880. 


L . C . M . 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

“All a-Growin’ and a-Blowin’ ”.5 

My Vagrant.20 

Helen’s Temptation.35 

The Surgeon of the Dolls’ Hospital ...... 56 

Pretty Miss Kate.77 

A Borrowed Rosebud.94 

Tom’s Thanksgiving ..106 

Finding Jack.. . 124 

Her Mother’s Daughter.139 

My Quarrel with Ruth.158 

Was it Her Mother?.172 

The Lady from Over the Way . . . . . . . 186 

His Mother’s Boy. 200 

Dr. Joe’s Valentine.217 

















NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ ALL A-GROWIN ’ AND A-BLOWIN V’ 


J T had been such a weary hunt for lodgings. ' 
Not that lodgings are scarce in London. There 
are scores of streets, whole districts, indeed, where 
the house that did not say “Apartments” in its 
window would be the exception. 

But Miss Endell wanted to combine a great deal. 
She must be economical, for her funds were running 
low; she must be near the British Museum, for she 
wanted to consult many authorities for the book 
about “ Noted Irishwomen,” by which she hoped to 
retrieve her fortunes; she wanted quiet, too, and 
reasonably pretty things about her. 

For a week she had spent most of her time in 
quest of the place where she could settle herself 




6 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


comfortably for a few months. It was the gray 
March weather. The mornings were dark, and the 
gloom of coming dusk settled down early; and, dur¬ 
ing all the hours between, Miss Endell had been 
busy in that weary work of which Dante speaks, 
“ climbing the stairs of others.” 

At last, after much consideration, she had de¬ 
cided to make a certain flight of stairs her own. 
She had taken the drawing-room floor of No. 30 
Guilford Street; and with a comfortable feeling of 
success she had paid her bill at the Charing Cross 
Hotel, and driven to her new home. 

The drawing-room floor — that is to say, the 
suite of rooms up one flight of stairs from the street 
— is the most important part of a London lodging- 
house. Whoever is kept waiting, when “ the draw¬ 
ing-room ”— as it is the fashion to designate the 
lodger who occupies that apartment — rings, the 
ring must at once be “ answered to.” That floor 
rents for as much as all the rest of the house put 
together, and is the chief dependence of anxious 
landladies. 

Miss Endell, accordingly, was received as a per- 



7 


“ ALL A-GROWIN’ AND A-BLOWIN’.” 

son of importance. Her boxes were brought up¬ 
stairs, and her landlady, Mrs. Stone, bustled about 
cheerfully, helping her to arrange things. 

At last every thing was comfortably placed, 
and the tired new-comer settled herself in a low 
chair in front of the glowing coal-fire, and glanced 
around her. 

Mrs. Stone was still busy, wiping away imper¬ 
ceptible dust. The door was open, and in the door¬ 
way was framed a singular face, that of a pale, 
slender child, with a figure that looked too tall for 
the face, and great eager eyes, with such a wistful, 
silent longing in them as Miss Endell had never 
seen before. 

At the same moment Mrs. Stone also caught 
sight of the child, and cried out a little crossly, — 

“ Go away, you plague! Did n’t I tell you as 
you was n’t to ’ang round the new lady, a-worritin’ 
her?” 

The child’s wistful face colored, and the tears 
sprang to the great, sad eyes; but he was silently 
turning away, when Miss Ended herself spoke. She 
was not specially fond of children; but she had a 



8 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


kind heart, and something in the wan, pitiful face 
of the child touched it. 

“Don’t send him away, Mrs. Stone,” she said 
kindly. “ Come in, my little man, and tell me 
what your name is.” 

The child sidled in, timidly, but did not speak. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” Miss Endell said. “ What is 
your name ? ” 

“ Bless you, ma’am, he can't speak ! ” said Mrs. 
Stone. 

“ Can’t speak? ” 

“ No; he was born with something wrong. Laws, 
he can hear as well as anybody, and he knows all 
you say to him ; but there ’s something the matter. 
The last ‘ drawing - room ’ said that there was doc¬ 
tors, she was sure, as could help him, but I haint 
any money to try experiments. 

“Johnny was my brother’s child. His father 
died before he was born, and. his mother lived just 
long enough to ’and over Johnny to me, and ask me 
to take care of him. 

“ I’ve done my best; but a lodging-house is a 
worrit. What with empty rooms, and lodgers as 



9 


“ALL A-GROWIN' AND A-BLOWIN 


didn’t pay, and hard times, I never got money 
enough ahead to spend on doctors. 

“But you mustn’t have Johnny a-worritin’ 
round. You’d get sick o’ that. The last ‘ draw¬ 
ing-room ’ said it made her that nervous to see 
him ; and I halways thought she went off partly for 
that.” 

“ I will not let him trouble me, don’t be afraid ; 
but let him sit down here by the fire, and when I 
find he disturbs me I ’ll send him away.” 

Mrs. Stone vanished, and Johnny took up his 
station on a stool in a corner of the hearth-rug. 

Miss Endell busied herself with a book, but from 
time to time she looked at the boy. His face was 
pale and. wistful still, but a half-smile, as sad as 
tears, was round his poor silent mouth, and he was 
gazing at his new friend as if he would fix every 
line of her face in his memory for ever. 

For a long hour he sat fl there; and then Mrs. 
Stone came to lay the cloth for dinner, and sent 
him away to bed. 

The next morning he appeared again ; and soon 
it grew to be his habit to sit, almost all the day 



10 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


through, and watch Miss Ended at her tasks. In 
spite of her absorption, he occupied a good many of 
her thoughts. 

Like him, she was an orphan ; and she had few 
close and vital interests in her life. She got to feel 
as if it belonged to her, in a certain way, to look 
after this silent waif of humanity more lonely still 
than herself. 

Often she took an hour from her work to read 
little tales to him, and it was reward enough to see 
how his eyes brightened, and the color came into 
his pale little face. She used to think that if her 
work succeeded, Johnny should also be the better 
for it. As soon as the first edition of “ Noted Irish¬ 
women ” was sold, she would have the best medi¬ 
cal advice for him ; and if there were such a thing 
as giving those lips language, it should be done. 

“ Should you like to speak to me, Johnny?” she 
asked one day sudden^. 

The boy looked at her, for one moment, with 
eyes that seemed to grow larger and larger. Then 
came a great rush of sobs and tears that shook him 
so that Miss Endell was half-frightened at the effect 



“ALL A-GROWIJST AND A-BLO WIN’.” 11 


of her own words. She bent over and put her 
hand on his head. 

“Don’t, Johnny! Don’t, dear!” she said ten¬ 
derly. 

I doubt if any one had ever called the poor little 
dumb boy u dear ” before, in all his eleven years of 
life. He looked up through his tears, with a glad, 
strange smile, as if some wonderful, sweet thing 
had befallen him ; and then, in a sort of timid rap¬ 
ture, he kissed the hem of Miss Endell’s gown, and 
the slippered foot that peeped out beneath it. 

I think there is an instinct of motherhood in good 
women that comes out toward all helpless crea¬ 
tures, and it awoke then in Miss Endell’s heart. 
After that she and Johnny were almost insepar¬ 
able. Often she took him with her on her walks, 
and always when she worked he kept his silent 
vigil on the hearth-rug. 

Miss Endell had one extravagance. She could 
not bear to be without flowers. She did not care 
much for the cut and wired bouquets of the florist ,j 
but she seldom came home from her walks without 
some handful of wall-flowers, or a knot of violets 



12 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


or forget-me-nots. Now and then she bought a 
tea-rose bud; and then Johnny always noticed 
how lof ingly she tended it — how she watched it 
bursting from bud to flower. 

He got to know that this strange, bright creature 
whom he idolized loved flowers, and loved tea- 
roses best of all. A wild desire grew in him to 
buy her tea-roses — not one, only, but a whole 
bunch. He spent his days in thinking how it was 
to be done, and his nights in dreaming about it. 
A penny was the largest sum he had ever pos¬ 
sessed in his life, and a penny will not buy one tea- 
rose, much less a bunch of them. 

One day Miss Endell took him with her when 
she went to see a friend. It was a prosperous, good- 
natured, rich woman in whose house they found 
themselves. “ Go and see the pictures, Johnny,” 
Miss Endell said; and Johnny wandered down the 
long room, quite out of ear-shot. 

Then she told his pathetic little story, and her 
friend’s careless yet kind heart was touched. When 
it was time for Miss Ended to go, she summoned 
Johnny ; and then the lady they were visiting gave 




“ALL A-GROWIJSr AND A-BLOWIN'” 13 


the boy a half-crown, a whole shining, silver half- 
crown. 

Johnny clasped it to his heart in expressive pan¬ 
tomime, and lifted his wistful, inquiring eyes. 

“Yes, it is all yours,” the lady said, in an¬ 
swer ; “ and don’t let any one take it away from 
you.” 

Small danger, indeed, of that! The piece of silver 
meant but one thing to Johnny, — tea-roses, un¬ 
limited tea-roses. 

The next day he was taken ill. He had a fever, 
— a low, slow fever. His aunt was kind enough to 
him, but she had plenty to do, and Johnny would 
have been lonely indeed but for Miss Endell. 

She had him brought each morning into her 
room, and kept him all day lying on her sofa, giving 
him now a kind word, now a draught of cold water, 
and then a few grapes, with the sun’s secret in 
them. 

One day Johnny drew something from his bo¬ 
som, and put it into Miss Endell’s hand. It was 
the silver half-crown. He made her understand, 
by his expressive gestures, that she was to keep it 



14 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


for him ; and she dropped it into a drawer of her 
writing-desk. 

At last Johnny began to get well. June came, 
with all its summer sights and sounds, and strength 
came with its softer winds to the poor little waif. 
One day he stood before Miss Endell, and put out 
his hand. She understood, and dropped the half- 
crown into it. He hid it, with a sort of passion, in 
his bosom, and Miss Endell smiled. Did even this 
little waif, then, care so much for money ? 

As soon as he could stand, he took up his station 
on the balcony outside the windows, and watched 
and watched. 

His friend thought only that the sights and 
sounds of the street amused him. She was work¬ 
ing on at the “ Noted Irishwomen,” which was 
nearing its conclusion, and it quite suited her that 
Johnny found the street so interesting. 

As for the child, he was possessed by only one 
idea, — tea-roses. He watched to seethe hand- 
barrows come along, flower-laden and tempting. 

These same hand-barrows are a feature of Lon¬ 
don street life. They are full of plants growing 



“ALL A-GROWIN ’ AND A-BLOWIN’.” 15 


in pots, and also there are plenty of cut flowers. 
The venders cry, as they pass along, “ All a-growin’ 
and a-blowin’ ! ” and there is something exciting in 
the cry. It seems part of the summer itself. 

Day after day, day after day, Johnny watched 
and watched. Flowers enough went by, — gera¬ 
niums glowing scarlet in the sun, azaleas, white 
heath, violets, — only never any tea-roses. 

But at last, one morning, he heard the familiar 
cry, “All a-growin ’ and (Mowin'!” and lo! as if 
thejr had bloomed for his need, there were tea-roses 
— whole loads of tea-roses! 

Miss Endell was busy, just then, with Lady 
Morgan. She never noticed when the little silent 
figure left the window, and hurried downstairs. 
Out into the street that little figure went, and 
on and on, in hot pursuit of the flower-barrow, 
which by this time had quite the start of him. 

Down one street, up another, he ran, and always 
with the silver half-crown tightly clasped in the 
palm of his little hand. 

At last a customer detained the barrow; and 
Johnny hurried up to it, panting and breathless. 



16 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


He put his hand out towards the tea-roses, and 
then he held out his silver half-crown. 

The flower-seller looked at him curiously. 
“ Why don’t you speak, young ’un ? ” he said. 
“ Are you dumb ? You want this ’alf-crown’s wuth 
o ’ them tea-roses ? ” 

Johnny nodded vehemently. 

1 The man took up a great handful of the pale 
sweet flowers, and thrust them into the boy’s 
hands, taking in exchange the half-crown, and put¬ 
ting it away in a sort of pouch, along with many 
silver mates. 

As for Johnny, there are in every life supremef 
moments, and his came then. He held in his hand 
the flowers that Miss Endell loved, and he was 
going to give them to her. 

All his life he had felt himself in every one’s 
way. She, only, had made him welcome to her 
side. She had called him “ dear,” — and now 
there was something he could do for her. She 
had loved one tea-rose: how much, then, would 
she love a whole handful of tea-roses ! His heart 
swelled with a great wave of pride and joy. 



“ALL A-GROWUST AND A-BLOWIN 17 


He thought of nothing but his flowers, — how 
should he ? — and he never even heard or saw the 
butcher’s cart, tearing along at such a pace as John 
Gilpin never dreamed of. And in a moment, 
something had pushed him down, — something 
rolled and crunched over him,—and he knew noth¬ 
ing ; but he held the flowers tight through it all. 

“ Why, it’s Mrs. Stone’s dumb Johnny ! ” said 
the butcher-boy, who had got down from his cart 
by this time, and was addressing the quickly 
assembled London crowd. “ Gi ’e a hand, and 
lift un up into my cart, and I ’ll carry un home.” 

An awful inarticulate groan came from the poor 
child’s dumb lips as they lifted him ; but his hold 
on the tea-roses never' loosened. 

They carried him home, and into the house. 
Mrs. Stone was shocked and grieved; and she 
took her troubles noisily, as is the fashion of her 
class. Miss Endell, still fagging away at Lady 
Morgan, heard cries and shrieks, and dropped her 
pen and hastened downstairs. 

“ He’s dead ! Johnny’s dead! ” cried Mrs. Stone ; 

and Miss Endell, white and silent, drew near. 

2 



18 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


But Johnny was not dead, though he was dying 
fast. The butcher-boy had hurried off for a doc¬ 
tor ; and the three women, Mrs. Stone, her maid, 
and her lodger, stood by helplessly. 

Suddenly Johnny’s wandering look rested on 
Miss Endell. A great sweet smile of triumph 
curved his mouth, lighted his eyes, kindled all his 
face. With one grand last effort, he put out the 
bunch of tea-roses, and pressed them into her hand. 

And then, as if death had somehow been more 
merciful to him than life, and had in some way 
loosed his poor bound tongue, he stammered out 
the only words he had ever spoken — was ever to 
speak, — 

“ For you ! ” 

At length the doctor came and stood there, help¬ 
less like the rest, for death was stronger than all 
his skill. The shock and the hurt together had 
quenched the poor frail life that was ebbing so 
swiftly. 

Miss Endell bent and kissed the white quivering 
lips. As she did so, the tea-roses she held touched 
the little face. 



“ ALL A-GR0W1N » AND A-BLOWIN’” 19 


Was it their subtile fragrance, or this kiss, or 
both together, which seemed for one moment to 
recall the departing soul ? 

He looked up; it was his last look, and it took 
in the sweet woman who had been so gentle and 
so loving to him, and the flowers in her hand. 

His face kindled with a great joy. A hero 
might have looked like that who had died for his 
country, or a man who had given his life joyfully 
for child or wife. 

Johnny Stone had loved one creature well, and 
that creature had loved tea-roses. What could 
life have held so sweet as the death that found 
him when he was striving to give her her heart’s 
desire ? 



MY VAGRANT. 


E were in pursuit of Laura’s dressmaker, 



* 1 and had just rung the bell at her door, 
when a little boy presented himself, and, standing 
on the lower step, uplifted a pathetic pair of blue 
eyes, and a small tin cup held in a little grimy 
hand. A large basket was on one arm; and 
round his neck was one of those great printed 
placards, such as the blind men wear who sit at 
the street corners. Laura’s purse was always 
fuller than mine; and she was extracting a bit of 
scrip from it, while I bent my near-sighted eyes 
on the boy’s label. Could it be that I read 
aright? I looked again. No, I was not mis¬ 
taken. It read, in great, staring letters — 

I HAVE LOST MY HUSBAND IN THE WAR. 

In the war! And those blue eyes had not 
opened, surely, till some time after the war was 



MY VAGRANT. 


21 


ended! His husband! I was bewildered. I 
bent my gaze on him sternly, and asked, as 
severely as I could,— 

“Young man, can you read?” 

Laura was fumbling away at the unanswered 
dOor-bell. The boy looked as if he wanted to 
run; but I put my hand on his arm. 

“Can you read?” I repeated gravely. I think 
he shook in his shabby boots, for Iris voice was 
not quite steady as he answered,— 

“ Not much.” 

“ Not much, I should think. Do you know 
what this thing says that you’ve got round your 
neck ? ” . 

“ Does it say I’m blind ? ” he asked, with a 
little frightened quaver. 

“No, it says — but do you know what a hus¬ 
band is?” 

“Yes, he comes home drunk, and beats Mag 
and me awful.” 

“ Did you ever know a boy of your age to have 
a husband ? ” 

The blue eyes grew so wide open that I won- 



22 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


dered if they could ever shut themselves up 
again; and Laura, who had turned round at my 
question, looked as if she thought I had suddenly 
gone mad. The little dressmaker had opened the 
door, and stood there waiting meekly, with the 
handle in her hand. But my spirit was up, and I 
did not care for either of them. I asked again, 
very impressively, as I thought, with a pause after 
each word, — 

“ Did — you — ever — know — a — boy — of — 
your — age — to — have — a — husband ? ” 

“No, marm,” he gasped, “husbands belongs to 
women.” 

“Then what do you wear this thing for? It 
says that you have lost your husband in the war.” 

The imp actually turned pale, and I almost pit¬ 
ied him. 

“Will they put me in prison?” he asked, an 
abject little whine coming into his voice. “ Will 
they?” 

“ Did you steal it ? ” 

“I didn’t to say steal it —I just took it. I’d 
seen the rest put them on when they went out 



MY VAGRANT. 


23 


begging, and this was old Meg’s. She was n’t 
going out to-day, and I thought no harm to 
borrow.” 

“ Then you can’t read ? ” 

“ Well, not to say read, marm. I think I could 
make out a word now and then.” 

“ Do you want to ? ” 

The face brightened a moment, and, with the 
curving lips and eager eyes, was really that of a 
pretty boy. 

“ Oh, if I could ! ” half sighed the quivering 
lips; and then the smile went out, and left blank 
despair behind it. “ It’s no use, marm; she 
won’t let me.” 

“Who won’t? Your mother?” 

“No, Mag’s mother — old Meg. My mother’s 
dead, and I never had any father that ever I heard 
of; and since mother died old Meg does for me; 
and every day she sends me out to beg; and if I 
don’t get much she whips Mag.” 

I was growing strangely interested. 

“Whips Mag , because you don’t get much?” 
I said doubtfully. “ What for ? ” 



24 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ I guess there’s a hard place on me , marm. 
She found that it did n’t seem to hurt much, when 
she whipped me; and so one night Mag was teas¬ 
ing her to stop, and she turned to and whipped 
Mag, and that made me cry awful; and ever 
since, if I don’t get enough money, she whips 
Mag.” 

“ Are you sure you are telling me the truth ? ” 

I don’t know why I asked the question, for I 
saw honesty in those clear eyes of his. He looked 
hurt. Yes, you may laugh if you want to, I’m 
telling you just as it was — the boy looked as 
hurt as any of you would if I doubted you. 
There came a sort of proud shame into his man¬ 
ner. He clutched at the placard round his 
neck, as if he would tear it off, and answered, 
sadly, — 

“ I s’pose I can’t expect anybody to believe me 
with this round my neck; but, if you would go 
home with me, Mag could tell you, and you would 
believe Aer.” 

By this time Laura had gone in, leaving me to 
finish my interview alone. I reflected a moment. 



MY VAGRANT. 


25 


The other day I had heard Tom say he wanted an 
errand boy. Why should he not have this one ? 
Tom was my brother. I knew just the difficulties 
he would make, —want of reference, a street beg¬ 
gar, a regular rat of the gutter. I could fancy 
just how he would talk. I knew, too, that I could 
overrule his objections. That’s a power women 
have when a man loves them ; whether he be hus¬ 
band or brother or friend. I hated the thought 
of vice and ignorance and poverty. What if I 
could save just one small boy from their clutches ? 
I said resolutely,— 

“ Will you go home with me, and have a com¬ 
fortable hojme and good food and honest work, 
and no one ever to beat you, and learn to read ? ” 

I had seen no assent in his eyes till I came to 
this last clause of my sentence. Then he asked 
shrewdly, — 

“ Who ’ll teach me ? I can’t go to school and 
do my work, too.” 

“ I will teach you. Will you go and work 
faithfully for my brother, and learn to read?” 

“ Won’t I, just ? ” 



26 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Well, then, let me speak to the lady who went 
in, and I ’ll take you home at once.” 

He shuffled uneasily. 

“ If you please, marm, I can’t go till I’ve been 
back to Meg’s, and carried her this board.” 

“But I ’ll get a policeman to send a messenger 
with that. If you go, perhaps she won’t let you 
come to me.” 

“ Yes, marm, I shall come. But you would n’t 
believe me, sure, if I could steal away, like, and 
never say good-by to Mag, and let her cry both 
her-eyes out thinking I'd been shut up, or some¬ 
body had killed me.” And his own great blue 
eyes grew pathetic again over this picture of sor¬ 
rowful possibilities. 

“Well, you may go,” I said, half reluctantly, 
for the little vagabond had inspired in me a sin¬ 
gular interest. “You may go, and be sure you 
come to-night or in the morning, to 70 Deerham 
Street, and ask for Miss May.” 

He looked at me with a grave, resolved look. 

“ I shall come,” he said; and in an instant he 
was gone. 



MY VAGRANT. 


27 


That night, after dinner, I told Tom. He was 
mocking, incredulous, reluctant — just as I knew 
he would be. But it all ended in his promising to 
try “ My Vagrant,” if he ever came. 

Just as I had brought him to this pass, the bell 
rang, and I sprang to the dining-room door. The 
dining-room was the front basement, and the out¬ 
side door was so near that I opened it myself. It 
was, indeed, my vagrant. 

“ I want Miss May,” he said, with the air which 
such a gamin puts on when he speaks to a servant, 
— an air which instantly subdued itself into pro¬ 
priety when he heard my voice. 

I took him in to Tom ; and I saw the blue eyes 
softened even the prejudiced mind and worldly 
heart of Mr. Thomas May. He spoke very kindly 
to the boy, and then sent him into the kitchen for 
his supper. 

“ Where do you propose to keep this new acqui¬ 
sition ? ” he asked me, after the blue-eyed was out 
of sight. 

“ In this house, if you please. There is a little 
single bed all ready for him in the attic, and I ’ve 



28 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


arranged with cook to give him a bath and then 
put him into some of the clothes her own boy left 
behind him when he went away to sea. I mean 
to rescue this one soul from a starved and miser¬ 
able and wicked life, and I’m willing to take 
some pains ; and if you are n’t willing to do your 
part I’m ashamed of you.” 

Tom laughed, and called me his “ fierce little 
woman,” his “ angry turtle-dove,” and half-a-dozen 
other names which he never gave me except when 
he was in good humor, so I knew it was all right. 

Before three days were over Tom owned that my 
vagrant, as he persisted in calling the boy (though 
we knew now that his name was Johnny True), 
was the best errand boy he had ever^ employed. I 
myself taught him to read, as I had promised, and 
brighter scholar never teacher had. In four 
months he had progressed so fast that he could 
read almost any thing. There had been a sort of 
feverish eagerness in his desire to learn for which I 
was at a loss to account. Sometimes, coming home 
from some party or opera, I would find him study¬ 
ing in the kitchen at midnight. 



MY VAGRANT. 


29 


We grew fond of him, all of us. Cook said he 
was no trouble, and he made it seem as if she had 
her own boy back again. He waited on Tom with 
a sort of dog-like faithfulness ; and, as for me, 
I believe that he would have cut his hand off for 
me at any time. 

Yet one morning he got up and deliberately 
walked out of the house. When his breakfast was 
ready cook called for him in vain, and in vain she 
searched for him from attic to cellar. But before 
it was time for Tom to go to business another boy 
came, a little older than my vagrant, — a nice, 
respectable-looking boy, — and asked for Mr. May. 
He came into the dining-room and stood there, cap 
in hand. 

“ If you please, sir,” he said bashfully, “ Johnny 
True wants to know if you ’ll be so good as to take 
me on in his place, considering that he is n’t com¬ 
ing back any more, and I have done errands before, 
and got good reference.” 

He had made his little speech in breatliless haste, 
running all his sentences together into one. 

Tom looked at him deliberately, and lit a cigar. 



80 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Johnny is n’t coming back, hey ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Where is Johnny gone ? ” 

“ He didn’t tell me, if you please, but he said he 
should be hurt to death if it troubled you to lose 
him, and he knew I could do as well as he could.” 

I saw a refusal in Tom’s eyes, so I made haste to 
forestall it. 

“ Do take him,” I said in a low tone to Tom, and 
then I said to the boy that just now he had better 
go to the store, and Mr. May would see him pres¬ 
ently, when he came to business. 

Tom laughed, a half-amused, half-provoked 
laugh, when he went out, and said, — 

“Well, my dear, I don’t think your vagrant 
has proved to be such a success that you need 
expect me to let him choose my next errand boy.” 

“ I think, at least, that if he has sent you one as 
good as himself you will have no fault to find,” I 
said hotly. But all the time there was a sore 
place in my own heart, for I had thought that my 
vagrant would have loved me too well to run away 
from me in this way. 



MY VAGRANT. 


31 


That night Tom said that the new errand boy 
was doing well, and he had concluded to keep him 
on. I think Tom missed my vagrant; ,but not, of 
course, so much as I missed my bright scholar — 
my grateful little follower. 

Of course, the new boy lived in his own home, 
wherever that might be. I did not concern myself 
about him, or feel any disposition to put him in 
the little bed in the front attic. 

Two or three weeks passed and we heard no 
word from Johnny True. But at last a rainy 
day came, and with it Johnny, asking for Miss 
May. 

“ I guess he’s repented,” cook said, coming up¬ 
stairs to tell me. I went down to Johnny, resolved 
to be equal to the occasion — to meet him with all 
the severity his ungrateful behavior deserved. 
But, somehow, the wistful look in his blue eyes 
disarmed me. He was a little thin and pale, too; 
and my heart began to soften even before he 
spoke. 

“ I could n’t stay away, ma’am,” he said, with the 
clear accent he had caught so quickly from my 



32 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


brief teaching, “and not let you know why I 
went.” 

“ To let me know when you went would have 
been more to the purpose,” I answered, with what 
sternness I could command. “I had thought bet¬ 
ter of you, Johnny, than that you w T ere capable of 
running away.” 

“ But you see, ma’am, I was afraid you would 
not let me go if I told you.” 

“And why did you want to go? Were you 
not comfortable ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am—that was the worst of it.” 

“ Why the worst of it? Have you any especial 
objection to be comfortable ? ” 

Suddenly the blue eyes filled with tears, like a 
girl’s; and there was a pitiful sob in the voice 
which answered me. 

“ Oh, it hurt me so, when I was warm, and had 
a good supper, and everybody’s kind word, to 
think of poor Mag there at home, cold and hungry, 
and with old Meg beating her. I never should 
have come and left her but for the learning to read. 
She wanted me to come for that.” 



MY VAGRANT. 


33 


“ So you could read to her ? ” 

“ So I could teach her, ma’am. You never in all 
your life saw anybody so hungry to learn to read 
as Mag; and when I went home that first day and 
told her all you said, and told her that after all I 
couldn’t go and leave her there to take all the 
hard fare and hard words, she just began to cry, 
and to tease me to go and learn to read, so I could 
teach her, until I could n’t stand it any longer, and 
I came.” 

“ And how did she know she would ever see you 
again ? ” I asked. “ It would have been most nat¬ 
ural, having learned what comfort was, to stay on 
here and enjoy it.” 

“ Mag knew me, ma’am,” said my vagrant, as 
proudly as a prince could speak if his honor were 
called in question. “ Mag knew what I was, and I 
learned as fast as I could to get back to her— 
don’t you think so, ma’am? ” 

“ You learned faster than any one else could; I 
know that,” I answered. " But, Johnny, how 
could you bear to go back to begging again ?” 

“ I could n’t bear it, ma’am, and I did n’t. I had 
8 



34 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


money enough, that Mr. Tom had given me, to buy 
myself a stock of papers. I’m a newsboy now, and 
I teach Mag to read out of the papers I have left. 
And old Meg knows better now than to beat Mag, 
and we are so much happier. It’s all owing to you ; 
and I came back to thank you, — but I never could 
forsake Mag for long. I must stay with my own.” 

“ But they are not your own.” 

“ Mag is, ma’am.” 

He was as resolute to ally himself, for that girl’s 
sake, with poverty, and, if need were, shame, as 
ever was a hero to live or die for the land of his 
birth; and out in the rain, down the desolate 
street, I watched my vagrant go away from me for 
ever. But I did not pity him. No soul is to be 
pitied which has reached life’s crowning good, — 
the power to love another better than itself. Nor 
do I know any curled darling of fortune who seems 
to me happier than was my vagrant. 



HELEN’S TEMPTATION. 


'JMIE sun was almost setting, but its low light 
came in at the western windows, and lit up a 
pale face lying upon the pillows, till it seemed to 
the watchers beside the bed as if some glory from 
heaven had already touched the brow of the dying. 
These watchers were only two, — a girl of four¬ 
teen, rather tall of her age, with gray eyes that 
were almost green sometimes, and dark hair, short 
like a boy’s, and curling all over her head ; and 
a middle-aged woman, who had tended this girl 
when a baby, and was half friend, half servant, to 
the dying mother. 

Mrs. Ash had been lying all the day, almost in 
silence. Her husband had brought her, a year 
before, to California, because she was stricken 
with consumption, and he hoped the change 
from the harsh east winds of New England to 



86 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


the balmy airs of the Pacific coast might restore 
her to health. 

For a time the result had seemed to fulfil his 
hope ; but, very suddenly, he himself had been 
taken ill and died; and then the half-baffled dis¬ 
ease seized again on the mourning wife, who had 
now no strength to repel its onset. 

I think she would fain have lived — even then, 
when all the joy seemed gone from her life — for 
her daughter Helen’s sake ; but she was too weak 
to struggle, and so she lay there dying, quite 
aware of what was before her. 

All day she had seemed to be thinking, think¬ 
ing, and waiting till she had settled something in 
her own mind before she spoke. At last, with the 
sunset light upon her face, she beckoned to the 
woman, who bent nearer. 

“ As soon as all is over, Woods,” she said, as 
tranquilly as if she were speaking of the most ordi¬ 
nary household arrangement, “ you will take Helen 
to my sister’s in Boston. You must make the 
journey by easy stages, so as not to tire her too 
much. Fortunately she will not be dependent. 



HELEN’S TEMPTATION. 


37 


She has money enough, and she needs only care 
and love, which my sister will give her, I know 
well. 

“ I shall be glad if you can stay with her ; but 
that must of course be as Mrs. Mason will arrange. 
You will find when my affairs are settled that you 
have been remembered. You will lay me by my 
husband’s side, and then take Helen away. 

“ All is arranged so that there can be no trouble, 
and now, if you please, leave me a little while with 
my daughter.” 

The woman went out of the room, and then Mrs. 
Ash opened her arms, and Helen crept into them 
and lay there silently, as if she were a baby again 
whom her mother comforted. 

She was a strange compound, this Helen Ash, of 
impulsiveness and self-control. She had an intense 
nature, and her temptations would grow chiefly 
out of her tendency to concentrate all her heart on 
a single object, — to seek whatever thing she wished 
for with an insistence which would not be denied. 

This quality has its great advantages certainly, 
but it has its extreme dangers. 



38 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


Helen had no brothers or sisters or special 
friends. She had loved only her father and 
mother, but she had loved them with an almost 
excessive devotion. 

When her father died she had borne up bravely, 
that she might comfort and help her mother, and 
now she was bearing up still, that she might not 
sadden that parting soul with the anguish of her 
own. 

As she lay there in her mother’s arms, her eyes 
were wide open and tearless, but they were full of 
a desperate gloom sadder than tears. She was 
almost as pale herself as was her mother. 

“ Darling,” the mother said tenderly, “ how can 
I bear to leave you all alone ? Promise me one 
thing only, to open your heart to new love. It 
would be so like you to shut yourself up in your 
grief, and to fancy you were loving me less if you 
let yourself care for your Aunt Helen. 

“ She will love you for my sake, and she must 
be your second mother now. We were dearer 
than most sisters to each other, and she is a wise 
and good woman. 



HELEN’S TEMPTATION. 


39 


“ Her daughter, my namesake Laura, is just 
about your own age, and being her mother’s daugh¬ 
ter, she must be worth loving. Try to care for 
them, my darling. The life which has no love in 
it is empty indeed. Will you try ? ” 

“ O mamma,” the girl cried, with a sudden, des¬ 
perate sob, “ I ivill try because you bid me ! I will 
try ; but oh, how can I love them ? How can I 
bear to see another girl happy with her mother, 
and to know that you will never be with me any 
more — never in all the world? If I call all day 
and all night, you will never hear nor answer! O 
my own mother, must you leave me?” 

“ My darling, yes. I would have lived for your 
sake if I could. You have been my comfort always. 
Comfort me a little longer. Let me feel that in all 
the future you will try to live nobly for my sake.” 

The last words had been spoken with an evident 
effort, and it seemed to Helen that the cheek 
against which her own rested was already colder 
than it was half an hour ago. 

She clung closer to the poor wasted form that 
was her whole world of love, and closed her lips 



40 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


over the bitter cry that was rising to them ; and so 
the two lay, very, very quietly in that last embrace 
they were ever to know. 

And the twilight gathered round them, and at 
last a young moon, hanging low in the western sky, 
looked in and touched with its pale glory the pale 
faces on the pillow. 

The mother stirred a little, and with a last effort 
clasped her child closer, and said, in a voice like a 
sigh, faint and sweet and strange, “ Good-by, 
darling! ” and then she seemed to sleep. 

Perhaps Helen slept, also. She never quite 
knew; but it was an hour afterwards when Woods 
touched her shoulder, and said, with a kind firm¬ 
ness in her tone, — 

“ You must get up now, Miss Helen, and leave 
her to me. She went off just as quiet as a lamb, 
poor dear, and if ever a face was peaceful and 
happy, hers is now.” 

No one knew what the few days that followed 
were to Helen Ash. She shut her lips, as her 
manner was, over her grief. She turned away, 
with her great tearless eyes, from the two graves 



HELEN’S TEMPTATION. 


41 


where her father and mother lay side by side, and 
she helped, with a strange unnatural calmness, in 
all the preparations for the long journey she was 
to take. 

When at last she reached her aunt’s home in 
Boston, this strained, unnatural composure gave 
way a little. 

Her Aunt Helen looked so much like her 
mother that at first she thought she could not 
bear it. Then, when her aunt’s arms closed round 
her almost as tenderly as her mother’s would have 
done, she shivered a little, and burst into one 
wild passion of tears, which almost instantly she 
checked. 

“ I am to love you for her sake,” she said. 
“ Those were almost her last words; and indeed, 
indeed, I will try, but I think I left my heart all 
those miles away in her grave.” 

Mrs. Mason was, as her sister had said, a wise 
and good woman,— wise enough not to attempt to 
force the love or the interest of her niece. She 
contented herself with being exquisitely gentle and 
considerate towards her, and with trying, in count- 



42 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


less little ways, to make her feel that she was at 
home. 

Laura Mason had looked forward to Helen’s 
coming with a feeling that at last she was to find 
in her the sister she had longed for all her life, but 
Helen’s cold and self-contained manner disap¬ 
pointed her. She felt the atmosphere of Helen’s 
reserve almost as tangibly as if her orphan cousin 
had pushed her away. 

The summer months passed, and scarcely brought 
them any nearer together. Try as Helen might, she 
could not get over the sting of pain when she saw 
this other girl happy in her mother’s love, or run¬ 
ning gayly to meet her father when he came home 
at night. They had each other, she used to say to 
herself, but she had only her dead. She had not 
even Woods to speak to, for Mrs. Mason had decided 
not to retain her ; and since there was no one to 
whom Helen ever spoke of the past, she pondered 
it all the more in her heart. 

Things were a little better when school com¬ 
menced in the autumn. Helen and Laura were in 
the same classes, and that brought them somewhat 



HELEN'S TEMPTATION. 


43 


more together; still there was no real intimacy 
between them. 

In the spring there was to be a competitive 
examination, and a medal was to be bestowed on 
the leading scholar in the class. By midwinter it 
was quite evident that Helen and Laura led all the 
rest, and a real spirit of rivalry grew up between 
the cousins which bade fair to become a passion. 

Mrs. Mason looked on regretfully, adhering to 
her difficult policy of non-interference. One day 
Helen heard Laura say to her mother, — 

44 Mamsie, dear, you know you have the key 
to that French method locked up in your desk, for 
you taught us from it last summer. Won’t you be 
a dear, and lend it to me for a little while ? 

44 If I only could have that to help me, I should 
be sure of success. I would study just as hard. 
It would only be the difference between knowing 
when one was right, and floundering on in an aw¬ 
ful uncertainty.” 

Helen was behind the curtain of the library 
window, and evidently they did not know of her 
She waited for her aunt’s answer. If 


presence. 



44 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


Laura had the key, then, indeed, she would be 
sure of success. 

Mrs. Mason spoke in a sad voice, with a subtile 
little thrill of reproach in it. 

“ I did not think you would so much as wish, 
my dear, to do any thing that was not quite open 
and straightforward. You know Mademoiselle 
does not expect you to see the key. The very 
test of your power is that you should work with¬ 
out its aid, and the examination will prove how 
far you have succeeded.” 

“ I suppose there’s no use in coaxing, when you 
say that. I do wish you were n’t such an uncoax- 
able mamma.” 

“ No, you don’t, — you only fancy that you wish 
it; but, in your inmost soul, you would rather 
have me as I am,” Mrs. Mason answered; and 
Helen heard the sound of a kiss, and felt, for the 
thousandth time, how bitter it was that this other 
girl should have home and mother, while she had 
only a far-off grave. 

But, at least, she would triumph in this school 
contest! If Laura came off best there, it would 
be more than she could bear. 



HELEN’S TEMPTATION . 


45 


The weeks passed on, and the spring came. 
The deep old garden back of the house — the gar¬ 
den Helen’s mother had played in when she was a 
child — grew full of bird-songs and blossoms. 

There was a sweet laughter on the face of na¬ 
ture. The springs bubbled with it; the flowers 
opened to the light; the sunshine poured down its 
tender warmth, and the soft coo and call of the 
birds gave voice to the general joy. 

But both Laura and Helen were too eager and 
too tired to be gay. They only studied. They 
went to sleep with books under their pillows; 
they woke with the first light, and began to study 
again. 

It was the very week of the examination, at 
last. Helen felt satisfied with herself in all but 
her French. If she could only have that key for 
one little half-hour, she knew she would have no 
weak spot in her armor. 

She brooded over the idea until the temptation 
possessed her like an evil fate. In her passionate 
girl’s heart she said to herself that she wanted to 
die if Laura triumphed over her at school. Laura 



46 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES . 


had every thing else ; why should she have that, 
also? 

She had said at first, “ If only it were right to 
have the key!” Then she said, “if only she 
could chance on the key, somehow ! ” Then, “ if 
only she could get at her aunt’s desk and find the 
key! ” At last it was, — 

“ I will get at the key, somehow! ” 

This last was the very morning before the ex¬ 
amination. She rose from her bed in the dainty 
blue-hung room her aunt had taken such pains to 
make pretty for her, and went softly downstairs, 
in the young spring morning. 

Her bare feet made no sound on the thick stair- 
carpet. She looked like a little white-clad ghost 
that had forgotten to flee away at the first cock- 
crowing, as an orthodox ghost ought; but no 
ghost ever had such glowing cheeks, crimson with 
excitement, such great wide-opened gray eyes 
with green depths in them. 

She held in her hand a large bunch of keys be¬ 
longing to her mother. It was just a chance 
whether one of them would fit her aunt’s desk. 



HELEN'S TEMPTATION. 


47 


She fairly trembled with excitement. She had 
lost all thought of the wrong she was doing — of 
the shame and meanness of this act, which must be 
done in silence and mystery; she thought only of 
the triumph which success would mean. 

She stood before the desk, and tried key after 
key with her shaking fingers. 

At last one fitted. In a moment more the key 
to the French method was in her hand. 

In desperate haste she compared her own work 
with it, and made corrections here and there. 

She was so absorbed that she quite failed to see 
another white-clad figure which had followed her 
noiselessly down the stairs, and stood in the door¬ 
way long enough to see what she was doing, and 
then went away. 

Hurriedly Helen went through her evil task, 
and then stole back to bed, with her glittering 
eyes and burning cheeks. 

Meantime Laura had gone, full of excitement, 
to her mother. Mr. Mason was away on business, 
and Laura crept into the empty half of her moth¬ 
er’s great bed. 



48 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Mamsie,” she said, “ wake up quickly, and 
listen.” 

Patient Mrs. Mason rubbed the sleep out of her 
eyes, and turned over. Then followed Laura’s 
breathless story. 

“ Of course she ’ll win, now,” Laura said, in 
conclusion, “ unless I tell Mademoiselle what she 
has done ; and I suppose you would n’t like that, 
w^ould you, mamsie? 

“But it was her French that was the shakiest 
of any thing. Oh, did you ever see any thing quite 
so mean ? Think of getting into your desk with 
her keys, and then slying off all those correc¬ 
tions ! ” 

“ Yes, I do think,” Mrs. Mason answered, with 
almost a groan. 

“ Arid she is Laura’s child — my poor Laura, 
who was honor and honesty itself! 

“You don’t know, dear, what a bitter thing 
this is to me. Poor Laura ! what if she 
knows ? ” 

“But what shall we do, .mamsie, dear? Are 
we just to keep still, and let her win the 



HELEN'S TEMPTATION. 


49 


medal, and let every one think she has beaten 
fairly, or will you tell her what w r e know ? ” 

“Will you go away now,” Mrs. Mason said, 
“and come hack again before breakfast? I don’t 
-want to say any thing until I am quite sure what 
it is best to do.” 

When Laura came again, Mrs. Mason had set¬ 
tled upon her course of action, or rather of inac¬ 
tion. 

“ Don’t be vexed, girlie,” she said to Laura ; “ I 
know it will seem hard to you to be beaten un¬ 
fairly ; but there are things of more consequence 
even than that. The thing that seems to me most 
important, just now, is to know what Helen’s 
character really is. If she is not utterly unworthy 
of her mother, she will repent before the thing 
comes to an end. If she does not, it will be time 
enough to think what to do next.” 

“ And I must let her beat unfairly, and never 
say one word? ” Laura asked, with a little strain of 
rebellion in her voice. 

“Yes, if you are the obedient and generous 

Laura I like to believe you.” 

4 



50 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


44 Mamsie, you have a flattering tongue, and you 
always get your way.” 

44 And who is pretty sure always to admit, in the 
end, that it was the best way ? ’’ asked Mrs. Mason, 
laughing. 

44 Mamsie, you are getting spoiled. See if I say 
yours was the best way this time! ” 

French came on the first of the two examination- 
days. Laura and Helen led their class. Laura 
did very well, but Helen acquitted herself tri¬ 
umphantly, and sat down amid a little buzz of 
congratulations and praises. 

But somehow the triumph left a bitter taste in 
her mouth. She did not look at Laura, and even 
if she had she would not have understood the 
scorn on Laura’s face, since she was quite unaware 
that her raid on her aunt's desk had been observed. 

Still she was not happy. She needed no scorn 
from outside, she had already begun to feel such 
bitterness of self-contempt scorching her soul. It 
seemed to her that up to this moment she had been 
as one under an evil spell. 

She had thought of no single thing except her 



HELEN’S TEMPTATION. 


51 


triumph over her cousin — quite careless as to the 
means to this hotly desired end. Now she began 
to realize how base those means had been, and to 
long to exchange her success for any direst possible 
failure. 

Mrs. Mason was watching her, and when they 
started to go home, she found an instant in which 
to whisper to Laura, — 

“ Be gentle to her, girlie ; she will suffer enough 
to-night.” 

At supper Helen's place was vacant. She sent 
word that her head ached too much to come. 

Her aunt despatched to her room tea and straw¬ 
berries and bread-and-butter enough for the hun¬ 
griest of girls, and then left her to herself. 

The poor, lonesome, miserable girl lay upon her 
bed and thought. It was not quite a year since 
she had lain in her mother’s arms and heard her 
say, — 

“ Try to live nobly for my sake.” 

Those had been almost her mother’s last words ; 
after them there was only the low sigh, faint as if 
it came already from far-off worlds, — 



52 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Good-by, darling.” 

The low sun-rays stole in softly, and touched her 
sad, pale face, and then went away; and after a 
while some cold, far-off stars looked down into the 
window, and saw the girl lying there still, fighting 
her battle with herself. 

One thing her conscience told her, — that she 
must undo this wrong, at whatever cost of shame. 

Once she started up, half-resolved to go to her 
aunt and tell her the whole story, and seek her 
help and counsel. But she lay down again, with¬ 
out the courage to confess her shame. 

Through the long night she scarcely slept; but 
before morning she had resolved what to do. In 
public she had taken the wages of her sin; in 
public she would make atonement, and eat the 
bitter bread of humiliation. 

When she had once settled on her course of 
action, sleep touched her weary eyes, and soothed 
her into a forgetfulness from which only the break¬ 
fast-bell awoke her. 

That day every one noticed a singular calmness 
and resolve in her manner. She passed the remain- 



HELEN'S TEMPTATION. 


53 


ing examinations with thorough success, yet with 
an evident lack of interest in their result which all 
save her aunt were at a loss to understand. 

At last the time came for the awarding of the 
medal. There was a little consultation among the 
examining committee, and then their chairman 
rose, with the medal in his hand. 

“ To Miss Helen Ash,” he began ; but before he 
could proceed farther, Miss Helen Ash herself 
interrupted him. 

Her face was as white as the dress she wore, 
and her eyes glittered with some strange fire of 
resolve or courage ; but her voice was absolutely 
without a quiver of emotion in it, as steady and 
even as if she were beyond hope or fear. 

“ The medal does not belong to me,” she said. 
“ My success was a false success. I dishonestly 
found the key to the French method, and cor¬ 
rected my mistakes by it, or I should have failed. 
The prize belongs, of right, to my cousin, Laura 
Mason.” 

The chairman was a fussy little man, and was 
thoroughly discomposed by this interruption. He 



54 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


had had his little speech all ready, but it began 
with the name of Helen Ash, and he found it 
difficult to change it at a moment’s notice. 

“ Bless my heart! ” he said quite unconsciously, 
and looking helplessly around him, he repeated, 
“ Bless my heart! ” 

“ Miss Laura Mason, ” suggested one of his 
brethren on the committee; and thus reinforced, 
he began again, — 

“ Miss Laura Mason, I am very sorry — I mean 
I am very glad, to bestow on you this medal, which 
you have fairly earned by your success.” 

And then he sat down, and his confusion was 
covered by a gentle little clapping of hands. 

That night Mrs. Mason went to Helen in her 
own room, when the twilight shadows were falling, 
and as she entered the door she said, “ My dar¬ 
ling,” in a voice so like Helen’s mother’s that the 
girl’s very heart sprang to meet it. 

“ My darling, I know now that you are true 
enough and brave enough to be my sister’s 
child.” 

But Helen shrank back into the darkness, and 




HELEN'S TEMPTATION . 


55 


this time the voice was broken with tears which 
faltered, — 

44 Is there any one who could know wliat I have 
done, and yet not despise me ? ” 

44 There is no one, dear, who dares to scorn the 
soul that repents and atones.” 

And then loving arms held the poor lonesome" 
girl close, and she knew that she was no longer 
alone. She had found a new home — the home 
her mother bade her seek — in the heart of that 
mother’s sister. 



THE SURGEON OF THE DOLLS’ 
HOSPITAL. 


JT was nearly four years ago that I first noticed, 
in one of the quiet side-streets in the West 
Central district of London, a sign over a door on 
which I read : — 

dolls’ hospital. 

Operations from 9 a.m., to 4 p.m. 

Whenever I passed through the street — and 
that was often, for it was a short cut to Mudie’s, — 
the largest circulating library in the world, — I used 
to notice this quaint sign, and wonder, laughingly, 
who was the superintending physician to this place 
of healing for the numerous race of dolls. 

I often thought I would go in and see the estab¬ 
lishment ; but one is always busy in London, so, 
very likely, I should never have entered its door 
but fora casualty at my own fireside. 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS’ HOSPITAL. 57 


When I went downstairs one morning, I*heard 
a sound of weeping, as bitter as that of Rachel of 
old mourning for her children. The mourner in 
this case was Mistress Brown-Eyes, as I was wont 
to call my friend’s little girl. 

She was a pretty child, this little Milicent; but 
you forgot to think about the rest of her face when 
you saw her wonderful eyes — soft and clear, yet 
bright, and of the warmest, deepest, yet softest 
brown. She had made her home in my heart, and 
so her grief, whatever it was, appealed at once to 
my sympathies. 

“ My darling,” I said, as I tried to draw away 
the little hands from before the sorrowful face, 
“ what can be the matter? ” 

“ Bella is dead ! ” and the sobs recommenced 
with fresh violence. 

Bella was the best-beloved of a somewhat large 
family of dolls, — a pretty Parian creature, with 
blue eyes and fair hair. I had myself lately 
assisted in making a trunk of clothes for Bella; 
and I grudged sorely all my wasted labor, if she 
had come to an untimely end. 



58 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


I looked at the dear remains, stretched out sadly 
upon a chair. Bella was evidently very dead in¬ 
deed. Her pretty neck was broken, her fair, 
foolish head lay quite severed from her silken- 
clad body. Suddenly there flashed into my 
mind the thought of the dolls’ hospital. I spoke 
cheerfully. 

“ Brown-Eyes,” I said, “ I think that Bella may 
recover. I am pretty sure that her collar-bone is 
broken ; but I have heard of people who got well 
after breaking their collar-bones.” 

The child looked up, her eyes shining through 
tears, and said, with that air of grave, old-fashioned 
propriety which was one of the most amusing 
things about her, — 

‘'It is a very serious accident. Do you think 
Bella could recover ? ” 

“ I hope she may; and I shall at once take her 
to the hospital.” 

“ The hospital! ” cried Mistress Brown-Eyes ; 
“ but that is where Mary Ann went when she had 
a fever. She was gone six weeks. Will my Bella 
be gone six weeks ? ” 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL. 59 


44 1 think not so long as one week, if she can be 
cured at all.” 

In five minutes more I was in the street, with 
Bella in a basket on my arm. Her little mother 
had covered her carefully from the cold, though it 
was already May; and I felt as if I were in a 
position of grave responsibility as I hurried to the 
dolls’ hospital. 

A bell rang when I opened the door, and the 
oddest little person stood before me. At first I 
thought it was a child masquerading in long 
clothes; for she was not more than half the height 
of an ordinary woman. 

But, looking more closely, I saw the maturity of 
her face, and realized that I stood in the presence 
of a grown-up dwarf, who might really have been 
taken for Dickens’s Miss Mowcher, herself. 

She was dressed in a long, straight gown of rusty- 
looking black alpaca, and her rusty-looking black 
hair was drawn straightly back from as plain a 
face as one often sees. It was a kind, honest face, 
however, and I liked the voice in which she asked 
how she could serve me. I explained my errand. 



60 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Please to let me see the patient.” 

She spoke with as much gravity as if she had 
been the superintending physician of the largest 
hospital in London. I unveiled poor Bella, and 
the dwarf lifted her from the basket with grave 
tenderness. 

“ Poor little beauty! ” she said. “ Yes’m, I 
think I can cure her. ” 

“ Will the operation take long ? ” I asked, 
humoring her fancy. 

“I should prefer that the patient should not be 
moved, ma’am, before to-morrow.” 

“ Very well; then I will leave her.” 

Just at that moment I heard a voice call, “Sal¬ 
ly! Sally!” 

It was a well-trained, ladylike voice, but some¬ 
what imperious. 

“Yes, Lady Jane, I’ll be there in a moment,” 
answered the dwarf, whom I now knew to be 
Sally. Then a door opened, and the most beauti¬ 
ful creature I ever saw stood in it, looking in. 

The hospital was a bare enough place. There 
was a great table covered with dolls, — dolls with 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL. 61 


broken legs, dolls with punched heads, dolls with 
one arm gone, hairless dolls, broken-backed dolls, 
dolls of every kind, awaiting the ministrations of 
Sally; and dozens of other dolls were there, too, 
whom those skilful fingers had already cured of 
their wounds. 

There was a shelf, on which was ranged the 
pharmacy of this hospital, — white cement, boxes 
of saw-dust, collections of legs and arms, wigs, 
every thing, in short, that an afflicted doll could 
possibly require. Then there were two or three 
wooden stools,.and these completed the furniture 
of the apartment. 

Standing in the doorway, Lady Jane looked as 
if she were a larger doll than the rest, — a doll 
with a soul. She seemed a lady’s child, every 
pretty inch of her. I should think she was about 
twelve years old. She wore a blue dress, and a 
blue ribbon in the bright, fair hair that hung all 
about her soft, pink-and-white face, out of which 
looked two great, serious, inquiring blue eyes. 

“ I will be through soon, Lady Jane,” Sally said 
quietly ; and the girl turned away, but not before 



62 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


I had taken in a complete picture of her loveli¬ 
ness, and had noticed also a somewhat singular 

ornament she wore, attached to a slender golden 

* 

chain. It was so strange a vision to see in this 
humble little shop that my curiosity got the better 
of me, and, after the door had closed on Lady 
Jane, I asked, “ Does she live here ? ” 

“ Yes ’m,” answered Sally proudly. “ In a 
way, she is my child.” 

I hesitated to inquire further; but I think my 
eyes must have asked some questions in spite of 
myself; for Sally said, after a moment, — 

“You seem interested, ma’am, and I don’t mind 
telling you about her. I saw Lady Jane first 
some eight years ago. A man had her who used 
to go round with a hand-organ. She was such a 
pretty little creature that everybody gave her 
money, and she wa,s a great profit to Jacopo, for 
that was his name. 

“ It used to make my heart ache to see the little 
beauty trudging round all day on her patient feet. 
When Jacopo spoke to her, I ’ve seen her turn 
pale; and she never used to smile except when 



SURGEON OF TI1E DOLLS’ HOSPITAL. 63 


she was holding out her bit of a hat to people for 
money. She had to smile then; it was part of 
the business. 

“I was sixteen, and I was all alone in the 
world. I had a room to myself, and I worked 
days in a toy-shop. I used to dress the dolls, and 
I got very clever at mending them; but I hadn’t 
thought of the hospital, then. 

“ I lived in the same street with Jacopo, and I 
grew very fond of the little lady, as the people 
in the street used to call Jane. Sometimes I 
coaxed Jacopo to let her stay with me at night; 
but after three or four times, he would not let her 
come again. I suppose he thought she would get 
too fond of me. 

“ Things went on that way for two years; then 
one night, in the middle of the night, a boy came 
for me, and said Jacopo was dying and wanted me 
to come. I knew it was something about Jane, 
and I hurried on my clothes and went. 

“ The child was asleep in one corner. She had 
been tramping all that day, as usual, and she was 
too tired out for the noise in the room to wake 



64 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


her. Jacopo looked very ill, and he could hardly 
summon strength to speak to me. 

“‘The end has come sudden, Sally,’ he said, 
‘the end to a bad life. But I ain’t bad enough to 
want harm to happen to the little one when I am 
gone. There will be plenty of folks after her, for 
she’s a profitable little one to have; but if you 
want her, I ’ll give her to you. You may take her 
away to-night, if you will.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed I will,’ I cried, ‘ and thank you. 
While I can work, she shall never want.’ 

“ Jacopo had been fumbling under his pillow as 
he spoke; and when I said I would take the 
child he handed me a curious locket. Maybe you 
noticed it at her neck when she stood in the 
door ? 

“He said, as nearly as I could understand, for 
it was getting hard work for him to speak, that he 
had stolen the child, but he had always kept this 
thing, which she had on her neck when he took 
her, and perhaps it would help, some day, to find 
her people. 

“So I took her home. The next morning I 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS’ HOSPITAL. 65 


heard that Jacopo was dead, and the Lady Jane 
has been mine ever since.” 

“Have you always called her Lady Jane?” I 
asked. 

“ Yes’m. There is a coronet on that locket she 
wears; and I know she must be some great per¬ 
son’s daughter, she is so beautiful, and seems so 
much like a real lady.” 

“ And so you ’ve struggled on and worked for 
her, and taken care of her for six years, now?” 

“ Yes’m, and I’ve thanked God every day that 
I’ve had her to take care of. You see, ma’am, 
I’m not like other people ; and it was a good for¬ 
tune I could n’t look for to have a beautiful child 
like that given into my arms, as you might say. 
It was all the difference between being alone and 
with no one to care for, and having a home and an 
interest in life like other women. 

“ I gave up working in the shop when I took 
her, for I did n’t like to leave her alone. I was a 
good workwoman, and they let me take work 
home for awhile; then I opened the hospital, 
and I’ve done very well. Lady Jane has been to 

5 



66 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


school, and I don’t think if her true parents met 
her, they would be ashamed of her.” 

“ Do you ever think,” I said, “ that they may 
meet her some time, and then you would lose her 
for ever ? ” 

“Yes, indeed, I think about that, ma’am; and I 
make her keep the locket in sight all the time, in 
hopes it might lead to something.” 

“ In hopes ! ” I said, surprised. “ You don’t 
want to part with her, do you?” 

I was sorry, instantly, that I had asked the 
question, for her poor face flushed, and the tears 
gathered in her eyes. 

u O ma’am,” she said, “if I stopped to think 
about myself, I suppose I should rather die than 
lose her; but I don't think of any thing but her. 
And how could I want her, a lady born, and beau¬ 
tiful as any princess, to live always in a little room 
back of a dolls’ hospital? Would it be right for 
me to want it? 

“ No ; I think God gave her to make a few of 
my years bright; and when the time comes, she 
will go away to live her own life, and I shall live 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS’ HOSPITAL. 67 


out mine, remembering that she was here, once ; 
and harking back till I can hear the sound of her 
voice again; or looking till I see her bright head 
shine in the corner where she sits now.” 

Just then the bell rang, and other customers 
came into the hospital, and I went away, promis¬ 
ing to return for Bella on the morrow. 

I walked through the streets with a sense that I 
had been talking with some one nobler than the 
rest of the world. Another than poor Sally might 
have adopted Lady Jane, perhaps, tended her, 
loved her ; but who else would have been noble 
enough to love her, and yet be ready to lose her 
for ever and live on in darkness quite satisfied if 
but the little queen might come to her own again? 

I comforted Mistress Brown-Eyes with a promise 
of her “ child’s ” recovery, and I went to a kettle¬ 
drum or two in the afternoon, and dined out at 
night; btit all the time, amidst whatever buzz of 
talk, I was comparing the most generous persons I 
had ever known with the poor dwarfed surgeon of 
the dolls’ hospital, and finding them all wanting. 

I went for Bella about four the next afternoon. 



68 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


I wanted to get to the hospital late enough to see 
something of the little surgeon and her beautiful 
ward. I purchased a bunch of roses on the way, 
for I meant to please Sally by giving them to Lady 
Jane. 

I opened the door, and again, at the ringing of 
the bell, the quaint little figure of the dwarf sur¬ 
geon started up like Jack-in-the-box. 

“ Is the patient recovered ? ” I asked. 

“ The patient is quite well; ” and the surgeon 
took down pretty Bella, and proudly exhibited 
her. The white cement had done its work so per¬ 
fectly that the slender neck showed no signs of 
ever having been broken. 

I paid the surgeon her modest fee, and then I said, 
“ Here are some roses I brought for Lady Jane.” 

Sally’s plain face beamed with pleasure. “ It’s 
time to stop receiving patients for to-day,” she 
said. “ Won’t you walk into the sitting-room and 
give the roses to Lady Jane, yourself? ” 

I was well pleased to accept the invitation. The 
sitting-room was as cosy as the hospital itself was 
barren of attraction. I really wondered at the 














































































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iHiaumwMiflm 


-v ' i-'^rv 

Jam 


•■ .- • t •?*.!.» • ., 

gabi~M* . 






My roses were received with a cry of delight. — Page 69. 






































SURGEON OF THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL. 69 


taste with which it was arranged. The hangings 
were blue, and two or three low chairs were cov¬ 
ered with the same color; and there were pretty 
trifles here and there which made it seem like a 
lady’s room. 

My roses were received with a cry of delight; 
and, while Lady Jane put them in a delicate glass, 
Sally made me sit down in the most comfortable 
chair, and then she asked her ward to sing to me. 

The girl had a wonderful voice, soft and clear 
and full. 

When she had done singing, Sally said, “ I have 
thought sometimes that, if no better fortune comes, 
Lady Jane can sing herself into good luck.” 

“ I count on something better than that,” the 
little lady cried carelessly. “ When I ‘ come to 
my own,’ like the princesses in all the fairy tales, 
I ’ll send you my picture, Sally, and it will make 
you less trouble than I do. It won’t wear out its 
gowns, nor want all the strawberries for supper.” 

Sally did n’t answer ; but two great tears gath¬ 
ered in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. 

Lady Jane laughed — not unkindly, only child- 



70 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


ishly—and said, “Nevermind. Don’t cry yet. 
You ’ll have time enough for that when it all 
comes to pass. And you know you want it to 
happen ; you always say so.” 

“ Yes, yes, dear, I want it to happen,” Sally 
said hastily; “ I could n’t want to shut you up 
here forever, like a flower growingin a dungeon.” 

“ A pretty, blue-hung dungeon, with nice soft 
chairs,” Lady Jane said pleasantly ; and then I got 
up to go. 

Had this beautiful girl any real heart behind 
her beauty ? I wondered. If the time ever came 
when Sally must give her up to some brighter 
fate, would it cost the little lady herself one pang ? 
Could she be wholly insensible to all the devotion 
that had been lavished on her for all these years? 
I could not tell; but she seemed to me too light a 
thing for deep loving. 

I carried Bella home to Mistress Brown-Eyes, 
who received her with great joy, and with a certain 
tender respect, such as we give to those who have 
passed through perils. I stayed in London till 
“ the season ” was over, — that is to say, till the 





SURGEON OF THE DOLLS’ HOSPITAL. 71 


end of July; and then, with the last rose of sum¬ 
mer in my buttonhole, I went over to the fair sea- 
coast of France. 

It was not until the next May that I found my¬ 
self in London again ; and going to renew my sub¬ 
scription at Mudie’s, passed the dolls’ hospital. 
I looked up at the quaint sign, and the fancy 
seized me to go in. 

I opened the door, and promptly as ever, the 
dwarf surgeon of the dolls stood before me. It 
was nearly four o’clock, and the hospital was 
empty of customers. Nothing in it was changed 
except the face of the surgeon. Out of that 
always plain face a certain cheerful light had 
faded. It looked now like a face accustomed to 
tears. I said, — 

“ Do you remember me, Dr. Sally ? ” 

A sort of frozen smile came to the poor trem¬ 
bling lips. 

“ Oh, yes’m. You ’re the lady that brought the 
rose-buds to Lady Jane.” 

“ And is she well? ” I asked. 

“ I think so, ma’am. Heaven knows I hope so; 



72 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


but the old days when I knew are over. Won’t 
you come into the sitting-room, please ? ” 

I wanted nothing better for myself, and I felt 
that it might ease her sad heart to break its silence ; 
so I followed her into the familiar room. It, at 
least, was unchanged. The blue hangings were 
there, and the low easy-chairs, and the pretty 
trifles; and yet, somehow, the room seemed cold, 
for the beauty which had gladdened it last year 
had gone for ever. 

“ Will you tell me what happened ? ” I asked ; 
and I know the real sympathy I felt must have 
sounded in my voice. 

“ It was n't long after you were here,” she said, 
“a lady was driving by, and she saw my sign. 
She sent her footman to the door to see if the 
place was really what that said ; and the next day 
she came in herself and brought a whole load of 
broken toys. She said she wanted these things 
put in order to take into the country, for they 
were favorite playthings of her little girl’s. 

“ I turned then and looked at the child who had 
come in with her mother. I can never tell you 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL. 73 


how I felt. It was as though Lady Jane had gone 
back six years. Just what rr^ darling was when 
she came to me, this little girl was now, — the 
very same blue eyes, and bright, fair hair, and the 
pretty, pink-and-white face. 

“Just at that moment, Lady Jane came into the 
hospital, and when the lady saw her, she stood 
and gazed as if she had seen a ghost. I looked 
at the lady herself, and then I looked at Lady 
Jane, and then again at the little girl; and true 
as you live, ma’am, I knew it was Lady Jane’s 
mother and sister before ever a word was spoken. 
I felt my knees shaking under me, and I held fast 
to the counter to keep from falling. I could n’t 
have spoken first, if my life had depended on it. 

“ The lady looked, for what seemed to me a long 
time ; and then she walked up to my darling and 
touched the locket that she wore on her neck. 
At last she turned to me and asked, with a little 
sternness in her gentle voice, if I would tell her 
who this girl was, and how I came by her. 

“So I told her the whole story, just as I had 
told it to you, and before I had finished, she was 



74 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


crying as if her heart would break. Down she 
went on her knees beside Lady Jane, and put her 
arms around her, and cried,— 

“ 4 O my darling, my love, I thought you were 
dead! I am your mother — oh, believe me, my 
darling! Love me a little, a little, — after all 
these years! ’ 

“And just as properly as if she had gone 
through it all in her mind a hundred times before¬ 
hand, Lady Jane answered,— 

“ 4 I always expected you, mamma.’ 

44 Somehow, the lady looked astonished. She 
grew quieter, and stood up, holding Lady Jane’s 
hand. 

“ 4 You expected me? ’ she said, inquiringly. 

, “ ‘ Yes, you know I knew I had been stolen; 
and I used to think and think, and fancy how my 
true mother would look, and what my right home 
would be; and I always felt sure in my heart that 
you would come some day. I did n’t know when 
or how it would be ; but I expected you. ? 

“ 4 And when will you be ready to go with me ? ’ 
asked the mother. 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL. 75 


“ 4 When you please, mamma.’ 

“ The lady hesitated, and turned to me. ‘ I owe 
you so much,’ she said, 4 so much that I can never 
hope to pay it; and I do not like to grieve you. 
But her father and I have been without Jane so 
long, could you spare her to me at once ? ’ 

44 ‘ That must be as you and she say, ma’am,’ I 
answered, trying as hard as I could to speak qui¬ 
etly. 4 1 never have wanted any thing but that 
she should be well off and happy so far, and won’t 
begin to stand in her light now.’ 

44 Then the lady turned to the little girl who 
had come in with her. 4 Ethel,’ she said, ‘this is 
your sister. She has been lost to us eight years, 
but we will keep her always, now.’ And then, 
with more thanks to me, she started to go away, 
— the stately, beautiful lady, with her beautiful 
girls, one on each side of her. 

‘ 4 They got to the door, and suddenly my dar¬ 
ling turned, —O ma’am, it’s the best thing in my 
whole life to remember that! Of her own accord 
she turned and came back to me, and said she, — 
44 4 Don’t think, Sally, that I’m not sorry to say 



76 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


good-by. Of course I can’t be sorry to find my 
own mamma and my right home, but I’m sorry to 
leave you' 

“And then she put her arms round my neck 
and kissed me just as she had done when I took 
her home that night from Jacopo’s, six years 
before ; and then she went away, and the sunr 
shine, it seemed to me, went out of the door 
with her, and has never come back since.” 

The poor little surgeon of the dolls stopped 
speaking, and cried very quietly, as those cry who 
are not used to have their tears wiped away, or 
their sorrows comforted. 

I wanted to say that Lady Jane seemed to me a 
heartless little piece, who cared for nothing in the 
world but herself, and wasn’t worth grieving for; 
but I felt there would be no comfort for her in 
thinking that there had never been any thing 
worth having in her life. Far better let her go on 
believing that for six years she had sheltered an 
angel at her fireside. 

At last, when I saw her tears were ceasing to 
flow, I said, “ And when did you see her again ? ” 



SURGEON OF THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL. 77 


“ Oh, I have never seen her since that day. I 
think she pitied me too much to come back and 
give me the sorrow of parting with her over again. 
No, I have never seen her, but her mother sent me 
five hundred pounds.” 

“ And so she ought,” I said impulsively. “ It 
was little enough for all you had done.” 

Surgeon Sally looked at me with wonder, not 
unmixed with reproach, in her eyes. 

“ Do you think I wanted that ?” she asked. “ I 
had had my pay for all I did, ten times over, in 
just having her here to look at and to love. 
No; I sent the money back, and I think it must 
be that my darling understood; for, two months 
afterwards, I received the only gift I would 
have cared to have, — her portrait. Will you 
please to look round, ma’am ? It hangs behind 
you.” 

I looked round, and there she was, even lovelier 
than when I had seen her first,— a bright, smiling 
creature, silken-clad, patrician to the finger-tips. 
But it seemed to me that no heart of love looked 
out of the fair, careless face. I thought I would 



78 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


rather be Surgeon Sally, and know the sweetness 
of loving another better than myself. 

44 She is very beautiful,” I said, as I turned 
away. 

44 Yes; and sometimes I almost think I feel her 
lips, her bonny bright lips, touch my face, as they 
did that last day, and hear her say, 4 Don’t think, 
Sally, that I’m not sorry.’ Oh, my lot is n’t hard, 
ma’am. I might have lived my life through and 
never have known what it was to have something 
all my own to love. God was good. 

44 And after all, ma’am,” she added cheerfully, 
44 there’s nothing happier in the world than to 
give all the pleasure you can to somebody.” 

And I went away, feeling that the dwarf sur¬ 
geon of the dolls’ hospital had learned the true 
secret of life. 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


"J^YERYBODY called her “pretty Miss Kate.*’ 
It was an odd title, and she had come by it 
in an odd way. A sort of half-witted nurse, 
whose one supreme merit was her faithfulness, 
had tended Squire Oswald’s baby daughter all 
through her early years; and she it was who had 
first called the girl “ pretty Miss Kate.” 

It was a small neighborhood where everybody 
knew everybody else; and, by dint of much hear¬ 
ing this title, all the neighbors grew to use it. 
And, indeed, at fifteen Kate Oswald deserved it. 
She was a tall, slight girl, Avith a figure very grace¬ 
ful, and what people call stylish. 

She had blue eyes; not the meaningless blue of 
a French doll, but deep and lustrous, like the ten¬ 
der hue of the summer sky. She had hair like 
some Northland princess. It had not a tint of 



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yellow in it, but it was fine and fair, and so light 
as to be noticeable anywhere. Her skin was 
exquisite, too, as skin needs must be to match 
such hair. When any color came to the cheeks 
it was never crimson, but just the faintest tint 
of the blush rose; her lips alone were of rich, 
vivid bloom. A prettier creature, truly, seldom 
crosses this planet; and the few such girls who 
have lived among us, and grown to womanhood, 
have made wild work generally, using hearts for 
playthings; and, like other children, breaking 
their toys now and then. But pretty Miss Kate 
was not at the age yet for that sort of pastime, 
and her most ardent worshipper was little Sally 
Green. 

There was a curious friendship between these 
two, if one may call that friendship which is made 
up of blind worship on one side and gentle pity 
and kindliness on the other. 

Squire Oswald owned the poor little house where 
Widow Green lived, and whenever there was an 
unusual press of work at the great house above, 
the family washing used to be sent down to Mrs. 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


81 


Green at the foot of the hill. Many an hour the 
widow worked busily, fluting the delicate ruffles 
and smoothing the soft muslins, out of which pretty 
Miss Kate used to bloom as a flower does out of its 
calyx. And on these occasions Safly used to carry 
the dainty washing home, and she nearly always 
contrived to be permitted to take it up to Miss 
Kate’s room, herself. 

Nobody thought much about little Sally Green 
any way, — least of all did any one suspect her of 
any romantic or heroic or poetical qualities. And 
yet she had them all; and if you came to a ques¬ 
tion of soul and mind, there was something in 
Sally which entitled her to rank with the best. 
She was a plain, dark little thing, with a stubbed, 
solid, squarely-built figure; with great black eyes, 
which nobody thought any thing about in her , but 
which would have been enough for the whole 
stock-in-trade of a fashionable belle; with masses 
of'black hair that she did not know what to do 
with; and with a skin somewhat sallow, but 
smooth. No one ever thought how she looked, 
except, perhaps, pretty Miss Kate. 



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One day, when the child brought home the 
washing, Kate had been reading aloud to a friend, 
and Sally had shown an evident inclination to lin¬ 
ger. At that time Kate was not more than four¬ 
teen, and the interest or the admiration in Sally’s 
face struck her, and, moved by a girl’s quick im¬ 
pulse, she had said, — 

“Do you want to hear all of it, Sally? Wait, 
then, and I will read it to you.” 

The poem was Mrs. Browning’s “ Romance of 
the Swan’s Nest,” and it was the first glimpse for 
Sally Green into the enchanted land of poetry 
and fiction. Before that , she had admired pretty 
Miss Kate, but now the feeling grew to worship. 

Kate was not slow to perceive it, with that femi¬ 
nine ' instinct which somehow scents out and de¬ 
lights in the honest admiration of high or low, rich 
or poor. She grew very kind to little Sally. Many 
a book and magazine she lent the child; and now 
and then she gave her a flower, a bit of bright 
ribbon, or some little picture. To poor Sally 
Green these trifles were as the gifts of a god¬ 
dess, and no devotee ever treasured relics from 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


83 


the shrine of his patron saint <.more tenderly than 
she cherished any, even the slightest, token which 
was associated with the beautiful young lady whom 
she adored with all her faithful, reverent, imagina¬ 
tive heart.' 

One June evening Sally had been working hard 
all day. She had washed dishes, run her mother’s 
errands, got supper, and now her reward was to 
come. 

“ You may make yourself tidy,” her mother said, 
“ and carry home that basket of Miss Kate’s things 
to Squire Oswald’s.” 

Sally flew upstairs, and brushed back her black 
locks, and tied them with a red ribbon Miss Kate 
had given her. She put on a clean dress, and a 
little straw hat that last year had been Miss Kate’s 
own; and really for such a stubbed, dark little 
thing, she looked very nicely. She was thirteen — 
two years younger than her idol— and while Miss 
Kate was tall, and looked older than her years, 
Sally looked even younger than she was. Her 
heart beat as she hurried up the hill. She thought 
of the fable of the mouse and the lion, which she 



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had read in one of the books Miss Kate had lent 
her. It made her think of herself afrid her idol. 
Not that Miss Kate was like a lion at all, — no, she 
was like a beautiful princess, — but she herself was 
such a poor, humble, helpless little mouse ; and yet 
there might be a time, if she only watched and 
waited, when she, even she, could do pretty Miss 
Kate some good. And if the time ever came, 
would n’t she do it, just, at no matter what cost to 
herself ? Poor little Sally! The time was on its 
way, and nearer than she thought. 

She found Miss Kate in her own pretty room, — a 
room all blue and white and silver, as befitted 
such a fair-haired beauty. The bedstead and ward¬ 
robe were of polished chestnut, lightly and grace¬ 
fully carved. The carpet was pale gray, with 
impossible blue roses. The blue chintz curtains 
were looped back with silver cords; there were 
silver frames, with narrow blue edges, to the few 
graceful pictures; and on the mantel were a clock 
and vases with silver ornaments. 

Pretty Miss Kate looked as if she had been 
dressed on purpose to stay in that room. She wore 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


85 


a blue dress, and round her neck was a silver neck¬ 
lace which her father had brought her last year 
from far-off Genoa. Silver ornaments were in her 
little ears, and a silver clasp fastened the belt at 
her waist. She welcomed Sally with a sweet gra¬ 
ciousness, a little conscious, perhaps, of the fact 
that she was Miss Oswald, and Sally was Sally 
Green; but to the child her manner, like every 
thing else about her, seemed perfection. 

“ Sit down and stay a little, Sally,” she said ; 
“ I have something to tell you. Do you remember 
what you heard me read that first time, when your 
eyes got so big with listening, and I made you stay 
and hear it all? ” 

“Yes, indeed,” Sally cried eagerly. “ I never 
forgot any thing I ever heard you read. That first 
time it was 4 The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.’ ” 
“Yes, you are right, and I know I was sur¬ 
prised to find how much you cared about it. I 
began to be interested in you then, for you know 
I am interested in you, don’t you, Sally ? ” 

Sally blushed with pleasure till her face glowed 
like the June roses in Miss Kate’s silver vases; 



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but she did not know what to say, and so, very 
wisely, she did not say any thing. Miss Kate 
went on, — 

“ Well, that very same poem I am going to read, 
next Wednesday night, at the evening exercises in 
the academy. The academy hall won’t hold every¬ 
body, and so they are going to be admitted by 
tickets. Each of us girls has a certain number to 
give away, and I have one for you. I thought you 
would like to go and see me there among the rest 
in my white gown, and hear me read the old verses 
again.” 

You would not have believed so small a thing 
could so have moved anybody; but Sally’s face 
turned from red to white, and from white to red 
again, and her big black eyes were as full of tears 
as an April cloud is of rain-drops. 

“ Do you mean it, truly ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, truly, child. Here is your ticket. Why, 
don’t cry, foolish girl. It’s nothing. I wanted to 
be sure of one person there who would think I 
read well, whether any one else did or not. And 
I’ve a gown for you, too — that pink muslin, 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


87 


don’t you know, that I wore last year ? I ’ve shot 
up right out of it, and it’s of no use to me, now, 
and mamma said I might give it to you. This is 
Saturday; you can get it ready by Wednesday, 
can’t you? ” 

What a happy girl went home that night, just as 
the rosy June sunset was fading away, and ran, 
bright and glad and full of joyful expectation, into 
the Widow Green’s humble little house ! Widow 
Green was n’t much of a woman, in the neighbors’ 
estimation. She was honest and civil, and she 
washed well; but that was all they saw in her. 
Sally saw much more. She saw a mother who 
always tried to make her happy ; who shared her 
enthusiasms, or at least sympathized with them; 
who was never cross or jealous, or any thing 
but motherly. She was as pleased, now, at the 
prospect of Sally’s pleasure as Sally herself was; 
and just as proud of this attention from pretty 
Miss Kate. Together they made over the pink 
muslin dress; and when Wednesday night came 
the widow felt sure that her daughter was as well 
worth having, and as much to be proud of, as 



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any other mother’s daughter that would be at 
the academy. 

“ You must go very early,” she said, “ to get a 
good seat; and you need not be afraid to go right 
up to the front. You ’ye just as good right to 
get close up there as anybody.” 

When Sally was going out, her mother called her 
back. 

“ Here, dear,” she said, “just take the shawl. 
Do it to please me, for there’s no knowing how 
cold it might be when you get out.” 

“ The shawl ” was an immense Rob Roy plaid, — 
a ridiculous wrap, truly, for a June night; but 
summer shawls they had none, and Sally was too 
dutiful, as well as too happy, not to want to please 
her mother even in such a trifle. How differ¬ 
ently two lives would have come out if she had 
not taken it! 

She was the very first one to enter the acad¬ 
emy. Dare she go and sit in the front row so 
as to be close to pretty Miss Kate ? Ordinarily 
she would have shrunk into some far corner, 
for she was almost painfully shy ; but now some- 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


89 


thing outside herself seemed to urge her on. She 
would not take up much room,— this something 
whispered,^— and nobody, no, nobody at all, could 
love Miss Kate better than she did. So she 
went into the very front row, close up to the 
little stage on which the young performers were 
to appear, — a veritable stage, with real foot¬ 
lights. 

Soon the people began to come in, and after a 
while the lights were turned up, and the exercises 
commenced. There were dialogues and music, 
and at last the master of ceremonies announced the 
reading of “ The Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” 
by Miss Kate Oswald. 

Other people had been interested in what went 
before, no doubt; but to Sally Green the whole 
evening had been but a prelude to this one trium¬ 
phant moment for which she waited. 

Pretty Miss Kate came forward like a little 
queen, — tall and slight, with her coronet of fair, 
braided hair, in which a shy, sweet rosebud nestled. 
She wore a dress of white muslin, as light and 
fleecy as a summer cloud, with a sash that might, 




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as' far as its hue went, have been cut from the deep 
blue sky over which that summer cloud floated. A 
little bunch of flowers was on her bosom, and other 
ornament she had none. She looked like one of 
the pretty creatures, half angel and half woman of 
fashion, which some of the modern French artists 
paint. 

As she stepped forward she was greeted with a 
burst of irrepressible applause, and then the house 
was very still as she began to read. How her soft 
eyes glowed, and the blushes burned on her dainty 
cheeks, when she came to the lines: — 


“ Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooseth: ‘ I will have a lover, 

Riding on a steed of steeds ! 

He shall love me without guile, 

And to him I will discover 
That swan’s nest among the reeds. 

“ ‘ And the steed shall be red-roan, 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath, 
And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble. 

As his sword strikes men to death.’ ” 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


91 


She had the whole audience for her lovers be¬ 
fore she was through with the poem, and the last 
verse was followed with a perfect storm of ap¬ 
plause. Was she not young and beautiful, with a 
voice as sweet as her smile? And'then she was 
Squire Oswald’s daughter, and he was the great 
man of the village. 

She stepped off the stage; and then the ap¬ 
plause recalled her, and she came back, pink with 
pleasure. A bow, a smile, and then a step too 
near the poorly protected foot-lights, and the 
fleecy white muslin dress was a sheet of flame. 

How Sally Green sprang over those foot-lights 
she never knew; but there she was, on the stage, 
and “the shawl” was wrapped round pretty Miss 
Kate before any one else had done any thing but 
scream. Close, close, close, Sally hugged its 
heavy woollen folds. She burned her own fingers 
to the bone; but what cared she ? The time of 
the poor little mouse had come at last. 

And so pretty Miss Kate was saved, and not so 
much as a scar marred the pink and white of her 
fair girl’s face. Her arms were burned rather 



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badly, but they would heal, and no permanent 
harm had come to her. 

Sally was burned much more severely, but she 
hardly felt the pain of it in her joy that she had 
saved her idol, for whom she would have been so 
willing even to die. They took her home very 
tenderly, and the first words she said, as they led 
her inside her mother’s door, were,— 

“Now, mother, I know what I took the shawl 
for! ” 

I said how differently two lives would have 
ended if she had not taken that shawl. Pretty 
Miss Kate’s would have burned out then and 
there, no doubt; for if any one else were there 
with presence of mind enough to have saved her, 
certainly there was no other wrap there like “ the 
shawl.” And then Sally might have grown up to 
the humblest kind of toil, instead of being what 
she is to-day; for Squire Oswald’s' gratitude for 
his daughter’s saved life did not exhaust itself in 
words. From that moment he charged himself 
with Sally Green’s education, and gave her every 
advantage which his own daughter received. 



PRETTY MISS KATE. 


93 


And, truth to tell, Sally, with her wonderful tem¬ 
perament, the wealth of poetry and devotion and 
hero-worship that was in her, soon outstripped 
pretty Miss Kate in her progress. 

But no rivalry or jealousy ever came between 
them. As Sally had adored Kate’s loveliness, so, 
in time, Kate came to do homage to Sally’s 
genius; and the two were friends in the most 
complete sense of the word. 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD. 


HERE was a pattering footfall on-the piazza, 



and Miss Ellen Harding went to look out. 
She saw a little figure standing there, among the 
rosebuds, — not one of the neighbors’ children, but 
a bonny little lassie, with curls of spun gold, and 
great, fearless brown eyes, and cheeks and lips as 
bright as the red roses on the climbing rosebush 
beside her. 

A little morsel, not more than five years old, she 
was; with a white dress, and a broad scarlet sash, 
and a hat which she swung in her fingers by its 
scarlet strings. She looked so bright and vivid, 
and she was such an unexpected vision in that 
place, that it almost seemed as if one of the pop¬ 
pies in the yard beyond had turned into a little 
girl, and come up the steps. 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD. 


95 


“ Did you want me ? ” Miss Harding asked, go¬ 
ing up to the tiny blossom of a creature. 

“ No, if you please.” 

“ My father, then, Dr. Harding, — were you 
sent for him?” 

The child surveyed her, as if in gentle surprise 
at so much curiosity. 

“No,” she answered, after a moment. “I am 
Rosebud; and I don’t want anybody. Jane told 
me to come here, and she would follow pres¬ 
ently.” 

She said the words with a singular correctness 
and propriety, as if they were a lesson which she 
had been taught. 

“ And who is Jane ? ” Miss Harding asked. 

Evidently the process of training had gone no 
further. The child looked puzzled and uncom¬ 
fortable. 

“ Jane ? ” she answered hesitatingly. “ Why, 
she is Jane.” 

“ Not your mamma ? ” 

“ No, —just Jane.” 

“ And what did Jane want here ? ” 



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“ She told me to come, and she would follow 
presently,” said the child, saying her little lesson 
over again. 

Evidently there was nothing more to be got out 
of her; but Miss Harding coaxed her to come 
into the cool parlor, and wait for Jane; and gave 
her some strawberries and cream in a gayly painted 
china saucer, that all children liked. Rosebud 
was no exception to the rest. When she had 
finished her berries, she tapped on the saucer with 
her spoon. 

“I will have it for mine, while I stay, — may 
I?” she said. “Not to take away, but just to 
call, you know.” 

“ Surely,” said Miss Harding, more puzzled than 
ever. Had the sprite, then, come to stay? Were 
there, by chance, fairies after all, — and was this 
some changeling from out their ranks ? She tried 
to entertain her small guest; and she found her 
quite accessible to the charms of pictures, and con¬ 
tented for an hour with a box of red and white 
chessmen. Towards night her curiosity got the 
better of her courtesy; and, looking from the 
window, she inquired, — 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD . 


97 


44 I wonder where your Jane can be ? ” 

“ Presently ; Jane said presently,” answered the 
child, with quiet composure, and returned to the 
chessmen. 

Miss Harding heard her father drive into the 
yard, and slipped out to speak to him. She told 
her story, and the doctor gave a low, soft whistle. 
It was a way he had when any thing surprised him. 

44 It looks to me,” said he, 44 as if Jane, whoever 
she may be, intended to make us a present of Miss 
Rosebud. Well, we must make the small person 
comfortable to-night, and to-morrow we will see 
ivhat to do with her.” 

The small person was easily made comfortable. 
She ate plenty of bread-and-milk for her supper, 
and more strawberries ; and when it was over, she 
went round and stood beside the doctor. 

“ I think you are a dood man,” she said, with the 
quaint gravity which characterized all her utter¬ 
ances. 44 1 should like to sit with you.” 

The doctor lifted her to his knee, and she laid 
her little golden head against his coat. There 
was a soft place under that coat, as many a sick and 
7 



98 


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poor person in the town knew very well. I think 
the little golden head hit the soft place. He stroked 
the shining curls very tenderly. Then he asked,— 

“ What makes you think I’m a 4 dood ’ man, 
Pussy-cat? ” 

“ My name is not Pussy-cat, — I am Rosebud,” 
she replied gravely; “ and I think you are dood 
because you look so, out of your eyes.” 

The little morsel spoke most of her words with 
singular clearness and propriety. It was only 
when a “ g ” came in that she substituted a “ d ” 
for it, and went on her way rejoicing. 

As the doctor held her, the soft place under his 
coat grew very soft indeed. A little girl had been 
his last legacy from his dying wife; and she had 
grown to be about as large as Rosebud, and then 
had gone home to her mother. It almost seemed 
to him as if she had come back again ; and it was 
her head beneath which his heart was beating. He 
beckoned to his daughter. 

“ Have you some of Aggie’s things ? ” he asked. 
“ This child must be made comfortable, and she 
ought to go to bed soon.” 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD. 


99 


“ No,” the child said ; “ I ’m doing to sit here till 
the moon comes. That means ‘ do to bed.’ ” 

“ Yes, I have them,” Miss Harding answered. 

She had loved Aggie so well, that it seemed half 
sacrilege to put her dead sister’s garments on this 
stranger child; and half it was a pleasure that 
again she had a little girl to dress and cuddle. She 
went out of the room. Soon she came running 
back, and called her father. 

“ O, come here ! I found this in the hall. It is 
a great basket full of all sorts of clothes, and it is 
marked ‘ For Rosebud.’ See, — here is every thing 
a child needs.” 

The doctor had set the little girl down, but she 
was still clinging to his hand. 

“ I think,” he said, “ that Jane has been here, 
and that she does not mean to take away our Rose¬ 
bud.” 

But the little one, still clinging to him, said,— 

“I think it is not ‘presently’ yet, — Jane 
wouldn’t come till ‘presently.’” 

“ Do you love Jane ? ” the doctor asked, looking 
down at the flower-like face. 



100 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Jane is not mamma. She is only Jane,” was 
the answer. 

When the moon rose, the little girl went will¬ 
ingly to bed ; and all night long Miss Ellen Hard¬ 
ing held her in her arms, as she used to hold her 
little sister, before the angels took her. Since 
Aggie’s death, people said Miss Ellen had grown 
cold and stiff and silent. She felt, herself, as if 
she had been frozen; but the ice was melting, as 
she lay there, feeling the soft, round little lump of 
breathing bliss in her arms ; and a tender flower 
of love was to spring up and bloom in that heart 
that had grown hard and cold. 

There was no talk of sending Rosebud away, 
though some people wondered much at the doctor, 
and even almost blamed him for keeping this child, 
of whom he knew nothing. But he wanted her, 
and Miss Ellen wanted her; and, indeed, she 
was the joy and life and blessing of the long-silent 
household. 

She was by no means a perfect child. A well- 
mannered little creature she was, — some lady had 
brought her up evidently, — but she was self- 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD. 


101 


willed and obstinate. When she had said, “ I’m 
doing to do ” such and such a thing, it was hard 
to move her from her purpose ; unless, indeed, 
the doctor interposed, and to him she always 
yielded instantly. But, just such as she was, they 
found her altogether charming. The doctor never 
came home without something in his pocket to re¬ 
ward her search ; Miss Ellen was her bond-slave ; 
and Mistress Mulloney in the kitchen was ready 
to work her hands off for her. 

Often, when she had gone to bed, the doctor and 
Miss Ellen used to talk over her strange coming. 

“ We shall lose her some day,” the doctor would 
say, with a sigh. “No one ever voluntarily aban¬ 
doned such a child as that. She is only trusted to 
our protection for a little while, and presently we 
shall have to give her up.” 

“ Should you be sorry, father,” Miss Ellen would 
inquire, “ that we had had her at all ? ” 

And the doctor would answer thoughtfully, 
“ No, for she has made me young again. I will 
not grumble when the snows come because we 
have had summer, and know how bright it is.” 



102 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


But the child lived with them as if she were 
going to live with them for ever. If she had any 
memories of days before she came there, she never 
alluded to them. After the first, she never men¬ 
tioned Jane, — she never spoke of a father or 
mother. But she was happy as the summer days 
were long, — a glad, bright, winsome creature as 
ever was the delight of any household. 

And so the days and the weeks and the months 
went on, and it was October. And one day the 
bell rang, and Mistress Mulloney went to the door, 
and in a moment came to the room where Miss 
Ellen was sitting, with Rosebud playing beside her, 
and beckoned to her mistress. 

“ It’s some one asking for the child,” she said. 
“ Can’t we jist hide her away ? It ’ll be hard for 
the doctor if she’s took.” 

“ No; we must see who it is, and do what is 
right,” Miss Ellen answered; but her lips trem¬ 
bled a little. She went into the hall, and there, at 
the door, stood a woman, looking like a nursery¬ 
maid of the better sort. 

“ I have come,” the stranger began; but Rose- 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD. 


103 


bud had caught the sound of her voice, and came 
on the scene like a flash of light. 

“ It is 1 presently! ’ ” she cried ; “ and there, oh, 
there is mamma! ” And down the path she flew, 
and into the very arms of a lady who was waiting 
at a little distance. 

Miss Harding went down the steps. “ You have 
come, I see, to claim our Rosebud, and she is only 
too ready to be claimed. I thought we had made 
her happy.” 

The child caught the slight accent of reproach 
in Miss Ellen’s voice, and turned towards her. 

“ You have been dood, oh, so very, very dood! ” 
she said, “ but this is mamma.” 

“ I trusted my darling to you in a very strange 
way,” the lady began, “ but not, believe me, with¬ 
out knowing in whose hands I placed her. I was 
in mortal terror, then, lest she should be taken 
from me, and I dared not keep her until she had 
been legally made mine, and mine only. But you 
have made me your debtor for life, and I shall try 
to show it some day.” 

“ But, at least, you will come in and wait until 




104 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


my father returns. He loves Rosebud so dearly, 
that it would be a cruelty to take her away until 
he has had time to bid her good-by.” 

“ You are right,” the stranger answered cour¬ 
teously. “ Jane, go with the carriage to the ho¬ 
tel, and I will come or send for you when I want 
you.” 

In a few moments more the strange lady was 
seated in the doctor’s parlor. Miss Harding saw 
now where Rosebud had got her bright, wilful 
beauty. 

“ I must explain,” the mother said, as she lifted 
her child upon her lap. “ I am Mrs. Matthewson. 
My husband is dead, and Rosebud has a very, very 
large fortune of her own. Her uncles, who were 
to have the management of her property, by her 
father’s will, claimed her also; and I have had 
such a fight for her! They were unscrupulous 
men, and I feared to keep Rosebud with me, lest 
by some means they should get some hold on her. 
So I resolved to lend her to you for the summer; 
and, indeed, I never can reward you for all your 
care of her.” 



A BORROWED ROSEBUD. 


105 


“ You can reward us only by not altogether tak¬ 
ing her away from us. We have learned to love 
her very dearly.” 

And, after a while, the doctor came home and 
heard all the story. And it was a week before 
Mrs. Matthewson had the heart to take away the 
child she had lent them. Then it was not long 
before the doctor and Miss Ellen had to go to see 
Rosebud. And then, very soon, Mrs. Matthewson 
had to bring her back again; and, really, so much 
going back and forth was very troublesome; and 
they found it more convenient, after a while, to 
join their households. 

Before Rosebud came, the doctor had thought 
himself an old man, though he was only forty-five ; 
but, as he said, Rosebud had made him young 
again; and Rosebud’s mamma found it possible to 
love him very dearly. But Miss Ellen always 
said it was Rosebud and nobody else whom her 
father married, and that he had been in love with 
the borrowed blossom from the first. 



TOM’S THANKSGIVING. 


“ TT was very provoking that seamstresses and 
such people would get married, like the rest 
of the world,” Mrs. Greenough said, half in fun 
and half in earnest. Her fall sewing was just 
coming on, and here was Lizzie Brown, who had 
suited her so nicely, going off to be married; and 
she had no resource but to advertise, and take 
whomsoever she could get. No less than ten 
women had been there that day, and not one 
would answer. 

“There comes Number Eleven ; you will see,” 
she cried, as the bell rang. 

Kitty Greenough looked on with interest. In¬ 
deed, it was her gowns, rather than her mother’s, 
that were most pressing. She was just sixteen, 
and since last winter she had shot up suddenly, as 



TOM’S THANKSGIVING. 


10T 


girls at that age so often do, and left all her clothes 
behind her. 

Mrs. Greenough was right, — it was another 
seamstress ; and Bridget showed in a plain, sad- 
looking woman of about forty, with an air of in¬ 
tense respectability. Mrs. Greenough explained 
what she wanted done, and the woman said quietly 
that she was accustomed to such work, — would 
Mrs. Greenough be so kind as to look at some 
recommendations? Whereupon she handed out 
several lady-like looking notes, whose writers in¬ 
dorsed the bearer, Mrs. Margaret Graham, as faith¬ 
ful and capable, used to trimmings of all sorts, and 
quick to catch an idea. 

“Very well indeed,” Mrs. Greenough said, as 
she finished reading them; “ I could ask nothing 
better. Can you be ready to come at once ? ” 

“To-morrow, if you wish, madam,” was the 
answer ; and then Mrs. Graham went away. 

Kitty Greenough was an impulsive, imaginative' 
girl; no subject was too dull or too unpromising 
for her fancy to touch it. She made a story for 
herself about every new person who came in her 



108 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


way. After Number Eleven had gone down the 
stairs, Kitty laughed. 

“ Is n’t she a sobersides, mamma ? I don’t be¬ 
lieve there ’ll be any frisk' in my dresses at all if 
she trims them.” 

“ There ’ll be frisk enough in them if you wear 
them,” her mother answered, smiling at the bright, 
saucy, winsome face of her one tall daughter. 

Kitty was ready to turn the conversation. 

“ What do you think she is, mamma, — wife or 
widow ? ” And then answering her own question : 
“ I think she’s married, and he’s sick, and she has 
to take care of him. That solemn, still way she 
has comes of much staying in a sick-room. She’s 
in the habit of keeping quiet, don’t you see ? I 
wish she were a little prettier; I think he would 
get well quicker.” 

“ There’d be no plain, quiet people in your 
world if you made one,” her mother said, smiling; 
“ but you’d make a mistake to leave them out. 
You would get tired even of the sun if it shone 
all the time.” 

The next day the new seamstress came, and a 



TOM'S THANKSGIVING. 


109 


thoroughly good one she proved; “ better even 
than Lizzie,” Mrs. Greenough said, and this was 
high praise. She sewed steadily, and never opened 
her lips except to ask some question about her 
work. Even Kitty, who used to boast that she 
could make a dumb man talk, had not audacity 
enough to intrude on the reserve in which Mrs. 
Graham intrenched herself. 

“ He ’$ worse this morning,” whispered saucy 
Kitty to her mother ; “ and she can do nothing but 
think about him and mind her gathers.” 

But, by the same token, “ he ” must have been 
worse every day, for during the two weeks she 
sewed there Mrs. Graham never spoke of any tiling 
beyond her work. 

When Mrs. Greenough had paid her, the last 
night, she said, — 

“ Please give me your address, Mrs. Graham, for 
I may want to find you again.” 

“17 Hudson Street, ma’am, up two flights of 
stairs ; and if I’m not there Tom always is.” 

“ There, did n’t I tell you ? ” Kitty cried exult- 
ingly, after the woman had gone. “ Did n’t I tell 



110 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


you that he was sick? You see now, — ‘Tom’s 
always there.’ ” 

“ Yes; but Tom may not be her husband, and I 
don’t think he is. He is much more likely to be 
her child.” 

“ Mrs. Greenough, I’m astonished at you. You 
say that to be contradictious. Now, it is not 
nice to be contradictious; besides, she would n’t 
look so quiet and sad if Tom were only her 
boy.” 

But weeks passed on, and nothing more was 
heard of Mrs. Graham, until, at last, Thanks¬ 
giving Day was near at hand. Kitty was to 
have a new dress, and Mrs. Greenough, who had 
undertaken to finish it, found that she had not 
time. 

“ Oh, let me go for Mrs. Graham, mamma,” 
cried Kitty eagerly. “ Luke can .drive me down 
to Hudson Street, and then I shall see Tom.” 

Mrs. Greenough laughed and consented. In a 
few minutes Luke had brought to the door the 
one-horse coupe, which had been the last year’s 
Christmas gift of Mr. Greenough to his wife, and 



TOM'S THANKSGIVING. 


Ill 


in which Miss Kitty was always glad to make an 
excuse for going out. 

Arrived at IT Hudson Street, she tripped up two 
flights of stairs, and tapped on the door, on which 
was a printed card with the name of Mrs. Graham. 

A voice, with a wonderful quality of musical 
sweetness in it, answered, — 

“ Please to come in ; I cannot open the door.” 

If that were “ he,” he had a very singular voice 
for a man. 

“ I guess mamma was right after all,” thought 
wilful Kitty. “ It ’s rather curious how often 
mamma is right, when I come to think of it.” 

She opened the door, and saw, not Mrs. Graham’s 
husband, nor yet her son, but a girl, whose face 
looked as if she might be about Kitty’s own age, 
whose shoulders and waist told the same story ; 
but whose lower limbs seemed curiously misshapen 
and shrunken — no larger, in fact, than those of a 
mere child. The face was a pretty, winning face, 
not at all sad. Short, thick brown hair curled 
round it, and big brown eyes, full of good-humor, 
met Kitty’s curious glance. 



112 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ I am Tom,” the same musical voice — which 
made Kitty think of a bird’s warble — said, in a 
tone of explanation. “ I can't get up to open the 
door because, don’t you see, I can’t walk.” 

“And why — what — Tom ”— 

Kitty struggled desperately with the question she 
had begun to ask, and Tom kindly helped her out. 

“ Why am I Tom, do you mean, when it’s a 
boy’s name; or why can’t I walk ? I’m Tom 
because my father called me Tomasina, after his 
mother, and we can’t afford such long names in this 
house ; and I can’t walk because I pulled a kettle 
of boiling water over on myself when I was six 
years old, and the only wonder is that I’m alive at 
all. I was left, you see, in a room by myself, 
while mother was busy somewhere else, and when 
she heard me scream, and came to me, she pulled 
me out from under the kettle, and saved the upper 
half of me all right.” 

“ Oh, how dreadful! ” Kitty cried, with the 
quick tears rushing to her eyes. “It must have 
wlmost killed your mother.” 

“ Yes; that’s what makes her so still and sober. 



TOM'S THANKSGIVING. 


113 


She never laughs, but she never frets either ; and 
oh, how good she is to me ! ” 

Kitty glanced around the room, which seemed 
to her so bare. It was spotlessly clean, and Tom’s 
chair was soft and comfortable — as indeed a chair 
ought to be which must be sat in from morning till 
night. Opposite to it were a few pictures on 
the wall, — engravings taken from books and 
magazines, and given, probably, to Mrs. Gra¬ 
ham by some of her lady customers. Within 
easy reach was a little stand, on which stood a 
rose-bush in a pot, and a basket full of bright- 
colored worsteds, while a book or two lay beside 
them. 

“And do you never go out?” cried Kitty, for¬ 
getting her errand in her sympathy — forgetting, 
too, that Luke and his impatient horse were waiting 
below. 

“ Not lately. Mother used to take me down into 
the street sometimes; but I’ve grown too heavy 
for her now, and she can’t. But I’m not very dull, 
even when she’s gone. You wouldn’t guess how 
many things I see from my window ; and then I 
8 



114 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


make worsted mats and tidies, and mother sells 
them ; and then I sing.” 

Kitty stepped to the window to see what range 
of vision it offered, and her eye fell on Luke. 
She recalled her business. 

“ I came to see if I could get your mother to sew 
two or three days for me this week.” 

Tom was alert and business-like at once. 

“ Let me see,” she said, “ to-day is Tuesday ;” 
and she drew toward her a little book, and looked 
it over. “ To-morrow is engaged, but you could 
have Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, if you 
want so much. Please write your name against 
them.” 

Kitty pulled off her pretty gray glove, and wrote 
her name and address with the little toy-pencil at 
the end of her chatelaine; and then she turned to 
go, but it was Tom’s turn to question. 

“ Please,” said the sweet, fresh voice, which 
seemed so like the clear carol of a bird, “would 
you mind telling me how old you are? I’m six¬ 
teen myself.” 

“And so am I sixteen,” said Kitty. 



TOM'S THANKSGIVING. 


115 


“ And you have a father and mother both, 
have n’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Kitty. 

“ Oh, I ’ve only mother, but she is good as two. 
Must you go now ? And I wonder if I shall ever 
see you again?” 

“ Yes, you will see me again,” answered Kitty 
cheerily; and then, moved by a sudden impulse 
of her kind, frank young heart, she bent over and 
touched her lips to the bright, bonny face of the 
poor girl who must sit prisoner there for ever, and 
yet who kept this bright cheerfulness all the time. 

“ Oh mamma, I’ve had a lesson,” cried Kitty, 
bursting into her mother’s room like a fresh wind, 
“ and Tom has taught it to me ; and he is n’t he 
at all—she’s a girl just my age, and she can’t 
walk — not a step since she was six years old.” 

And then Kitty told all the sad, tender little 
storjr, and got to crying over it herself, and made 
her mother cry, too, before she was through. 

After dinner she sat half the evening in a brown 
study. Finally she came out of it, and began 
talking in her usual impulsive manner. 



116 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ Can’t we have them here to Thanksgiving, 
mamma? There’s not a single pretty thing in 
that house except Tom herself, and the rose¬ 
bush ; and every thing did look so bare and clean 
and poverty-stricken; and I know they ’ll never 
afford a good dinner in the world. Oh, say yes, 
mamma, dear! I know you ’ll say yes, because 
you ’re such a dear, and you love to make every 
one happy.” 

u Yes; but, first of all, I must love to make 
papa happy, must I not? You know he never 
wants any company on Thanksgiving but grandpa 
and grandma and Uncle John. I’m sure you 
would not like to spoil papa’s old-fashioned 
Thanksgiving Day.” 

Kitty’s countenance fell. She saw the justice 
of her mother’s remark, and there was no more to 
be said. She sat thinking over her-disappoint¬ 
ment in a silence which her mother was the one to 
break. 

“But I’ve thought of a better thing, Puss,” 
said this wise mamma, who was herself every bit 
as tender of heart as Kitty, and cared just as much 



TOM'S THANKSGIVING. 


117 


about making people happy. “No doubt Mrs. 
Graham and Tom would just as much prefer being 
alone together as papa prefers to be alone with his 
family; and how will it suit you if I have a nice 
dinner prepared for them, and let you go and take 
it to them in the coup6? Mrs. Graham is hardly 
the woman one could take such a liberty with; 
but I ’ll beg her to let you have the pleasure of 
sending dinner to Tom.” 

“ Oh, you darling ! ” and Mrs. Greenough’s neck- 
ruffle suffered, and her hair was in danger, as was 
apt to be the case when Kitty was overcome with 
emotion, which could only find vent in a raptur¬ 
ous squeeze. 

Before bed-time Kitty had it all planned out. 
She was to go in the coupd and take Bridget and 
the basket. Bridget was to mount guard by the 
horse’s head while Luke went upstairs with Kitty 
and brought down Tom for a drive; and while 
they were gone Bridget would take the basket in, 
and see that every thing was right, and then go 
home. 

Mrs. Greenough consented to it all. I think 



118 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


she enjoyed the prospect of Tom’s ride, herself, 
just as much as Kitty did. While Mrs. Graham 
was sewing there she made the arrangement with 
her, approaching the subject so delicately that the 
most sensitive of women could not be hurt, and 
putting the acceptance of both drive and dinner in 
the light of a personal favor to Kitty, who had 
taken such a fancy to Tom. 

The last afternoon of Mrs. Graham’s stay Kitty- 
called her mother into her room. Mrs. Greenough 
saw spread out upon the bed a thick, warm, soft 
jacket, a woollen dress, a last year’s hat. 

“ You know them by sight, don’t you, mother 
mine ? They are the last winter’s clothes, that I 
grew away from, and have taken leave of. May 
Tom have them?” 

“ Yes, indeed, if you ’ll undertake to give them 
to Tom’s mother.” 

Kitty had seldom undertaken a more embarras¬ 
sing task. She stole into the sewing-room with 
the things in her arms. 

“ You ’ll be sure, won’t you, Mrs. Graham, not 
to let Tom know she’s going to ride until I get 



TOM’S THANKSGIVING. 


119 


there, because I want to see how surprised she ’ll 
look?” 

“ Yes, I ’ll be sure, never fear.” 

“ And, Mrs. Graham, here are my coat and hat 
and dress that I wore last year, and I’ve grown 
away from them. Would you mind letting Tom 
wear them ? ” 

“Would I mind?” A swift, hot rush of tears 
filled Mrs. Graham’s eyes, which presently she 
wiped away, and somehow then the eyes looked 
gladder than Kitty had ever seen them before. “ Do 
you think I am so weakly, wickedly proud as to be 
hurt because you take an interest in my poor girl, 
and want to put a little happiness into her life, — 
that still, sad life which she bears so patiently ? 
God bless you, Miss Kitty! and if He does n’t, it 
won’t be because I shall get tired of asking Him.” 

“ And you ’ll not let her see the hat and jacket 
till I come, for fear she ’ll think something ? ” 

At last Mrs. Graham smiled — an actual smile. 

“ How you do think of every thing! No, I ’ll 
keep the hat and jacket out of sight, and I ’ll have 
the dress on her, all ready.” 



120 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


When Thanksgiving came Kitty scarcely re¬ 
membered to put on the new fineries that Mrs. 
Graham had finished with such loving care; 
scarcely gave a thought to the family festivities at 
home, so eager was she about Tom’s Thanksgiv¬ 
ing. She was to go to Hudson Street just at 
noon, so that Tom might have the benefit of the 
utmost warmth of which the chill November day 
was capable. 

First she saw the dinner packed. There was a 
turkey, and cranberry-sauce, and mince-pie, and 
plum-pudding, and a great cake full of plums, too, 
and fruit and nuts, and then Mr. Greenough, who 
had heard about the dinner with real interest, 
brought out a bottle of particularly nice sherry, 
and said to his wife,— 

“ Put that in also. It will do those frozen-up 
souls good, once in the year.” 

At last impatient Kitty was off. Bridget and 
the basket filled all the spare space in the coupd, 
and when they reached Hudson Street, Luke took 
the dinner and followed Kitty upstairs, while 
Bridget stood by the horse’s head, according to 



TOM’S THANKSGIVING. 


121 


the programme. He set the basket down in the 
hall, where no one would be likely to notice it in 
opening the door, and then he stood out of sight 
himself, while Kitty went in. 

There was Tom, in the warm crimson thibet, — a 
proud, happy-looking Tom as }^ou could find in 
Boston that Thanksgiving Day. 

“ I have come to take you to ride,” cried eager 
Kitty. “ Will you go ? ” 

It was worth ten ordinary Thanksgivings to see 
the look on Tom’s'face, — the joy and wonder, and 
then the doubt, as the breathless question came,— 
“ How will I get downstairs? ” 

And then Luke was called in, and that mystery 
was solved. And then out of a closet came the 
warm jacket, and the hat, with its gay feather; 
and there were tears in Tom’s eyes, and smiles 
round her lips, and she tried to say something, and 
broke down utterly. And then big, strong Luke 
took her up as if she were a baby and marched 
downstairs with her, while she heard Kitty say, — 
but it all seemed to her like a dream, and Kitty’s 
voice like a voice in a dream,— 



122 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ I’m sorry there’s nothing pretty to see at this 
time of year. It was so lovely out-doors six weeks 
ago.” 

Through Beach Street they went, and then 
through Boylston, and the Common was beside 
them, with its tree-boughs traced against the No¬ 
vember sky, and the sun shone on the Frog Pond, 
and the dome of the State House glittered gold- 
enly, and there were merry people walking about 
everywhere, with their Thanksgiving faces on; 
and at last Tom breathed a long, deep breath 
which was almost a sob, and cried,— 

“ Did you think there was nothing pretty to see 
to-day — this day? Why, I didn’t know there 
was such a world ! ” 

The clocks had struck twelve when they left 
Hudson Street; the bells were ringing for one 
when they entered it again. Bridget was gone, 
but a good-natured boy stood by the horse’s head, 
and Kitty ran lightly upstairs, followed by Luke, 
with Tom in his arms. 

Kitty threw open the door, and there was a 
table spread with as good a Thanksgiving din- 



TOM'S THANKSGIVING. 


123 


ner as the heart could desire, with Tom’s chair 
drawn up beside it. Luke set his light burden 
down. 

Kitty waited to hear neither thanks nor excla¬ 
mations. She saw Tom’s brown eyes as they 
rested on the table, and that was enough. She 
bent for one moment over the bright face,—the 
cheeks which the out-door air had painted red as 
the rose that had just opened in honor of the day, 
— and left on the young, sweet, wistful lips a kiss, 
and then went silently down the stairs, leaving 
Tom and Tom’s mother to their Thanksgiving. 



FINDING JACK. 



ONN turned over and rubbed her sleepy blue 


eyes. It seemed to her that the world was 
coming to an end all at once, there was such a 
Babel of noise about her. What was it? Had 
everybody gone mad ? Then her wits began to 
wake up. She remembered that it was Fourth of 
July. That worst noise of all — why, that must 
be Jack’s pistol, which he had been saving up 
money to buy all winter and all summer. And 
that other sound — that must be torpedoes ; and 
there was the old dog, Hero, barking at them, and 
no wonder: it was enough to make any respecta¬ 
ble dog bark. Fire-crackers—ugh! Wasn’t the 
pistol bad enough, without all these side shows? 
Just then Jack called out from the yard below, — 


“ Conn ! Conn ! ” 

The girl’s name was Constantia Richmond ; but 



FINDING JACK. 


125 


she was too slight and bonny for such a long name, 
and everybody called her Conn. 

She shook back her fair, soft curls, as golden as 
a baby’s still, though Conn was fourteen, and, 
putting a little shawl over her shoulders, peeped 
out of the open window — as pretty a little slip of 
a girl as you would care to see — and looked down 
on the face, half-boyish, half-manly, which was up¬ 
turned to her. If Jack had been her brother, per¬ 
haps she would have scolded at him; for Conn 
loved her morning nap, and the general din had 
discomposed her, no doubt. But Jack was only 
her cousin, and her second cousin, at that, — and 
it’s curious what a difference that does make. 
Your brother’s your brother all the days of his 
life ; but your cousin is another affair, and far less 
certain. So Conn said, quite gently, — 

“ What is it ? Can I do any thing ? But I’m 
sure I don’t want to help you make any more 
noise. This has been — oh, really dreadful! ” 

She spoke with a droll little fine-lady air, and 
put her pretty little fingers to her pretty little 
ears. And Jack laughed ; he had not begun to 



126 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES . 


think of her yet as a charming girl, — she was 
just Cousin Conn. 

“ What! ” he cried. “ Not like noise on Fourth 
of July? Why, you don’t deserve to have a 
country.” 

“ I’m sure I wish I had n’t,” said Conn, with a 
little dash of spirit. 

“ Are you dressed ? ” cried the boy, nearly 
seventeen years old, but all a boy still. 

“ No.” 

“ Well, just hurry, then, and come down. I’m 
off in half an hour with the Brighton Blues, and I 
want you to see first how this pistol works.” 

High honor this, that she, a girl, should be in¬ 
vited to inspect the wonderful pistol! 

Conn began to dress hurriedly. What should 
she put on ? Her white dress hung in the closet, 
— such a white dress as girls wore then, — all 
delicate ruffles, and with a blue ribbon sash, as 
dainty-fine as possible. She knew that was meant 
for afternoon, when Aunt Sarah would have com¬ 
pany. But might she not put it on now? Per¬ 
haps Jack would n’t be here then, and she could 



FINDING JACK. 


127 


be careful. So she slipped into the dainty gown, 
and fastened hooks and buttons in nervous haste, 
and then looked in the glass, as every other girl 
that ever lived would have done in her place. 

It was a bright, fair face that she saw there — all 
pink and white, and with those violet eyes over 
which the long lashes drooped, and that soft, bright 
hair that lay in little rings and ripples round her 
white forehead, and hung a wavy mass down to 
the slender waist which the blue ribbon girdled. 
Conn was pleased, no doubt, with the sight she 
saw in the mirror, — how could she help being? 
She tripped downstairs, and out of the door. 
Jack whistled when he saw her. 

“ What! all your fineries on at this time of 
day ? What do you think Mother Sarah will say 
to that ? ” 

The pretty pink flush deepened in the girl’s 
cheeks, and she answered him almost as if she 
thought she had done something wrong, — 

“ I ’ll be so careful, Jack. I won’t spoil it. By 
and by you ’ll be gone ; and I wanted to look nice 
when I saw the new pistol.” 



128 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


This seemed extremely natural to Jack. The 
pistol was to him a matter of such moment that 
no amount of demonstration in its honor would 
have seemed too great. Viewed in this light, it 
really appeared quite a meritorious act that Conn 
should have put on the white dress ; and he looked 
her over with that air of half-patronizing approval 
with which boys are apt to regard the good looks 
of their sisters and their cousins. 

Then he exhibited the pistol. It had — as a 
boy’s knife or gun or boat always has — distin¬ 
guishing and individual merits of its own. No 
other pistol, though it were run in the same mould, 
could quite compare with it, and it was by some 
sort of wonderful chance that he had become its 
possessor. Conn wondered and admired with him 
to his heart’s content. Then came breakfast, and 
then the marching of the Brighton Blues. This 
was a company of boys in blue uniforms, — hand¬ 
some, healthy, wide-awake boys from fourteen to 
seventeen years old, — every one of them the pride 
of mothers and sisters and cousins. They were 
to march into Boston, and parade the streets, and 







Conn stood and watched them. 


Page 129. 


r 
























FINDING JACK. 


129 


dine at a restaurant, and see the fireworks in the 
evening, and I don’t know what other wonderful 
things. 

Jack was in the highest spirits. He was sure 
he and his pistol were a necessary part of the day; 
and he sincerely pitied Conn, because she was a 
girl and must stay at home. 


“ ‘ Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; 

Oh! a day in the city square, there is no such pleasure in life! * ” 

he quoted ; and then he called back to her from 
the gate, — 

“ It’s too bad, Conn, that there’s no fun for 
you; but keep your courage up, and I ’ll bring you 
something.” 

And so they marched away r in the gay, glad 
morning sunshine, following their band of music, 
— a boy’s band that was, too. 

Conn stood and watched them, with a wistful, 
longing look in her great violet eyes, and the soft, 
bright color coming and going on her girlish cheeks. 
At last she gathered a bunch of late red roses, and 
put them in her bosom and went into the house. 



130 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


She sewed a little, and then she tossed her work 
aside, for who cares to work on holidays ? Then 
she took up her new book; but the tale it told 
seemed dull and cold beside the warm throbbing 
life of which the outside world was full. She 
wished over and over that she were a boy, that she 
might have marched away with the rest. Then 
she wondered if she could not go into town and 
see them from somewhere in all their glory. Very 
little idea had she of a Boston crowd on Fourth of 
July. She had been into town often enough, with 
her aunt or her uncle, and walked through the 
quiet streets; and she thought she should have 
little trouble in doing the same now. She looked 
in her purse ; she had not much money, but enough 
so that she could ride if she got tired, and she 
would be sure to save some to come home. She 
called her Aunt Sarah’s one servant, and made her 
promise to keep the secret as long as she could, and 
then tell Aunt Sarah that she had gone to Boston 
to find Jack and see him march with the rest. 

The girl was a good-natured creature, not bright 
enough to know that it was her duty to interfere, 




FINDING JACK. 


131 


and easily persuaded by Conn’s entreaties and the 
bit of blue ribbon with which they were enforced. 

And so Conn started off, as the boys had done 
before her, and went on her way. But she had no 
gay music to which to march, and for company 
she had only her own thoughts, her own hopes. 

Still she marched bravely on. 

# 

There were plenty of other people going the 
•same way; indeed it seemed to Conn as if every¬ 
body must be going into Boston. Excitement up¬ 
held her, and she trudged along, mile after mile, 
across the pleasant mill-dam, and at last she 
reached Beacon Street. Her head had begun to 
throb horribly by the time she got into town. It 
seemed to her that all the world was whirling 
round and round, and she with it. But she could 
not turn back then; indeed, she did not know 
how to find any conveyance, and she knew her 
feet would not carry her much farther. Surely, 
she must see Jack soon. He had said they should 
march through Beacon Street. She would ask 
some one. She had an idea that every one must 
know about any thing so important as the Brighton 



132 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


Blues. At last she got courage to speak to a kind¬ 
looking servant-maid in the midst of a group on 
the steps of one of the Beacon-street houses. The 
girl pitied her white face, so pale now, with all 
the pretty pink roses faded from the tired young 
cheeks, and answered kindly. 

She did not know about the Brighton Blues, but 
she guessed all the companies had been by there, or 
„ would come. Would n’t the young lady sit down 
with them on the steps, and rest, and wait a little ? 

And “ the young lady ” sat down. What could 
she do else, with the whole world whirling, whirl¬ 
ing, and her feet so strangely determined to whirl 
out from under her? And then it grew dark, 
and when it came light again there was a wet cloth 
on her hair, and she lay on a lounge in a cool base¬ 
ment, and the kind girl who had cared for her told 
her that she had fainted. And then she had some 
food and grew refreshed a little, but was strangely 
confused yet, and with only one thought, to which 
she held with all the strength of her will, — that 
she had come to see Jack and must look for him 
till he came. So on the steps she stationed herself, 



FINDING JACK. 


133 


and the crowd surged by. Military companies, 
grown-up ones, came and went with glitter of 
brave uniforms and joyful clamor of music, and 
Conn watched, with all her soul in her eyes, but 
still no Jack. 

It was mid-afternoon at last when suddenly she 
saw the familiar blue, and marching down the 
street came the boyish ranks, following their own 
band — tired enough, all of them, no doubt, but 
their courage kept up by the music and the hope of 
fireworks by and by. Conn strained her eyes. 
She did not mean to speak, but after a little, when 
the face she longed for came in sight, something 
within her cried out with a sharp, despairing cry, 
“ Oh, Jack, Jack ! ” 

And Jack heard. Those who were watching 
saw one boy break from the long blue line, and 
spring up the step where Conn sat, and seize in 
strong hands the shoulders of a girl all in white, 
her face as white as her gown, and some red roses, 
withered now, upon her breast. 

“ Conn — Conn Richmond! ” the boy cried, 
“ what does this mean ? ” 



134 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“Don’t scold — oh, don't scold, Jack ! ” said the 
pitiful, quivering lips. “ I only came in to see you 
marching with the rest, and — I’m tired.” 

“Yes,” said the girl who had befriended her, 
“ and she fainted clean away, and she’s. more dead 
than alive now; and if you ’ve a heart in your bos¬ 
om, you’ll let your play soldiering go, and take 
care of her .” 

And just then Jack realized, boy as he was, that 
he had a heart in his bosom, and that his Cousin 
Conn was the dearest and nearest thing to that 
heart in the whole world. But he did not tell her 
so till long years afterwards. Just now his chief 
interest was to get her home. No more marching 
for him; and what were fireworks, or the supper 
the boys were to take together, in comparison with 
this girl, who had cared so much to see him in his 
holiday glory ? 

He took her to an omnibus, which ran in those 
days to Brighton, and by tea-time he had got her 
home. He found his mother frightened and help¬ 
less, and too glad to get Conn back to think of 
scolding. 



FINDING JACK. 


135 


It was six years after that, that in the battle of 
Malvern Hill, July 1, 1862, Jack, a real soldier 
then, and no longer a boy playing at the mimicry 
of war, was wounded ; and next day the news 
came to the quiet Brighton home. 

Conn had grown to be a young lady in the sweet 
grace of her twenty summers, and she was her Aunt 
Sarah’s help and comfort. To these two women 
came the news of Jack’s peril. The mother cried 
a little helplessly; but there were no tears in 
Conn’s eyes. 

“ Aunt Sarah,” she said quietly, “ I am going to 
find Jack.” 

And that day she was off for the Peninsula. It 
was the Fourth of July when she reached the hos¬ 
pital in which her Cousin Jack had been placed. 
She asked about him, trembling; but the news, 
which reassured her, was favorable. He was 
wounded, but not dangerously. It was a girlish 
instinct, which every girl will understand, that 
made Conn put on a fresh white gown before she 
used the permission she had received to enter the 
hospital. She remembered — would Jack remem- 



136 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


ber also ? — that other Fourth of July on which 
they had found each other, six years before. As 
if nothing should be wanting of the old attire, 
she met, as she passed along the street, a boy 
with flowers to sell, — for the flowers bloomed, 
just as the careless birds sang, even amid the 
horrors of those dreadful days, — and bought of 
him a bunch of late red roses, and fastened 
them, as she had done that other day, upon her 
breast. 

The sun was low when she entered the hospital, 
and its last rays kindled the hair, golden still as in 
the years long past, till it looked like a saint’s aure¬ 
ole about her fair and tender face. She walked 
on among the suffering, until, at last, before she 
knew that she had come near the object of her 
search, she heard her name called, just as she had 
called Jack’s name six years before, — 

“ Oh, Conn, Conn ! ” 

And then she sank upon her knees beside a low 
bed, and two feeble arms reached round her neck 
and drew her head down. 

“I was waiting for you, Conn. I knew you 



FINDING JACK. 


137 


would come. I lay here waiting till I should see 
you as you were that, day long ago, — all in white, 
and with red roses on your breast, — my one love 
in all the world ! ” 

And the girl’s white face grew crimson with a 
swift, sweet joy, for never before had such words 
blessed her. She did not speak ; and Jack, full of 
a man’s impatience, now that at last he had uttered 
the words left unsaid so long, held her fast, and 
whispered, — 

“ Tell me, Conn, tell me that you are mine, 
come life or death. Surely you would not have 
sought me here if you had not meant it to be so! 
You are my Conn, — tell me so.” 

And I suppose Conn satisfied him, for two years 
after that she was his wife, and last night he gave 
the old pistol of that first Fourth of July to a 
young ten-year-old Jack Richmond to practise 
with for this year’s Fourth ; and pretty Mother 
Conn, as fair still as in her girlhood, remonstrated, 
as gentle mothers will, with, — 

“ Oh Jack, surely he is too young for such a 
dangerous play thing. ’ ’ 



138 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


Father Jack laughed as he lifted little Conn to 
his knee, and answered, — 

“Nonsense, sweetheart. He is a soldier’s boy, 
and a little pistol-shooting won’t hurt him.” 

But how noisy it will be round that house on 
Fourth of July! 



HER MOTHER’S DAUGHTER. 


<^YL GRAHAM was an only child. Her name 
was Sylvia, but everybody called her Syl, 
except that sometimes, half playfully and half chid- 
ingly, her father called her Sylly. But that was a 
liberty no one else took, — and for which Mr. Gra¬ 
ham himself was not unlikely to pay in extra in¬ 
dulgence. 

Syl was seventeen, and she had never known 
any trouble in all her young, bright life. Her 
mother had died when she was two years old; and 
this, which might easily have been the greatest of 
misfortunes, — though Syl was too young to know 
it, — had been turned almost into a blessing by the 
devotion of her father’s sister, Aunt Rachel, who 
came to take care of the little one then, and had 
never left her since. 

Not the dead Mrs. Graham herself could have 



140 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


been more motherly or more tender than Aunt 
Rachel; and the girl had grown up like a flower 
in a shaded nook, on which no rough wind had 
ever been allowed to breathe. 

And a pretty flower she was ; so her father 
thought when she ran into the hall to meet him, 
as he came in from business at the close of the 
short November day. 

The last rays of daylight just bronzed her chest¬ 
nut hair. Her face was delicately fair, — as the 
complexion that goes with such hair usually is, — 
colorless save in the lips, which seemed as much 
brighter than other lips as if they had added to 
their own color all that which was absent from the 
fair, colorless cheeks. The brown eyes were danc¬ 
ing with pleasant thoughts, the little, girlish figure 
was wonderfully graceful, and Papa Graham looked 
down at this fair, sweet maiden with a fond pride, 
which the sourest critic could hardly have had a 
heart to condemn. 

“ Are you cross ? ” she said laughingly, as she 
helped him off with his overcoat. 

“Very,” he answered, with gravity. 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


141 


“I mean are yon worse than usual? Will you 
be in the best humor now or after dinner? ” 

“ After dinner, decidedly, if Aunt Rachel’s cof- 
' fee is good.” 

Syl nodded her piquant little head. “I ’ll wait, 
then.” 

The dinner was good enough to have tempted 
a less hungry man than Mr. Graham, and the coffee 
was perfect. Papa’s dressing-gown and slippers 
were ready, upstairs; and when he had sat down 
in the great, soft easy-chair that awaited him, and 
his daughter had settled herself on a stool at his 
feet, I think it would have been hard to find a 
more contented-looking man in all New York. 

“ Now I’m very sure you are as good as such a 
bear can be,” said saucy Syl; “ and now we ’ll 
converse.” 

To “ converse ” was Syl’s pet phrase for the 
course of request, reasoning, entreaty, by which 
Papa Graham was usually brought to accede to all 
her wishes, however extravagant. He rested, his 
hand now on her shining chestnut braids, and 
thought how like she was to the young wife he 



142 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


had loved so well, and lost so early. Then he 
said teasingly, — 

“ What is it, this time ? A Paris doll, with a 
trunk and a bandbox; or a hand-organ ? ” 

“For shame, papa! The doll was four years 
ago.” 

“All the more reason it must be worn out. 
Then it’s the hand-organ. But I must draw the 
line somewhere, — you can’t have the monkey. If 
Punch and Judy would do, though ? ” 

“Now, Father Lucius, you know I gave up the 
hand-organ two years ago, and took a piano for 
my little upstairs room instead; and you know 
I ’m seventeen. Am I likely, at this age, to want 
monkeys, Punch and Judys, and things?” 

“ O, no ! I forgot. Seventeen, — it must be a 
sewing-machine. You want to make all your end¬ 
less bibs and tuckers more easily. Well, I ’ll 
consent.” 

Syl blushed. It was a sore point between her 
and Aunt Rachel that she so seldom sewed for 
herself. Aunt Rachel had old-fashioned notions, 
and believed in girls that made their own pretty 
things. 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


143 


“Now, papa, you are not good-humored at all. 
I had better have asked you before dinner. You 
don’t even let me tell you what I want.” 

Papa sobered his face into a look of respectful 
attention, and waited silently. But now Syl was 
not quite ready to speak. 

“ Don’t you think pomegranate is a pretty color, 
papa ? ” 

“ What is it like ? ” 

“ O, it’s the deepest, richest, brightest, human- 
est red you ever saw.” 

“ Why, I think it must be like your lips ; ” and 
he drew her to him, and kissed the bright young 
mouth with a lazy content. 

“ Perhaps it is like my lips; then, surely it will 
look well with them.” 

“ Where does this blossom of beauty grow ? ” 

“It grows at Stewart’s. It has been woven 
into a lovely, soft-falling silk, at four dollars a 
yard. Twenty-five yards makes a gown, and 
eight yards of velvet makes the trimming and 
the sleeveless jacket, and the velvet is six dollars 
a yard. And then there is Madame Bodin, she 



144 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


charges like a horrid old Jew, — forty dollars just 
to look at a gown; and then there are the linings 
and buttons and things. Have you kept account, 
papa, and added it all up in your head? ” 

“ I think it means about two hundred dollars. 
Is n’t that what you call it, Sylly ? ” 

“Yes, if you please. It ’ll be worth that, won’t 
it, to have your daughter look like a love, when 
all the people come on New Year’s Day?” 

“ So that’s it, — that’s what this conspiracy 
against my peace and my pocket has for its object, 
— that Miss Syl Graham may sit at the receipt of 
callers on New Year’s Day, in a robe like a red, 
red rose. O Sylly, Sylly ! ” 

Syl pouted a little, the most becoming pout in 
the world. 

“Well, I’m sure I thought you cared how I 
look. If you don’t, never mind. My old black 
silk is still very neat and decent.” 

“September, October, November, — it’s nearly 
three months old, is n’t it ? What a well-behaved 
gown it must be to have kept neat and decent 
so long! And as to the other, I ’ll consider, 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


145 


and 3^011 can ask me again when I come home to¬ 
morrow.” 

Syl knew what Papa Graham’s considers meant, 
and how they always ended. She had gained her 
point, and she danced off and sang to the piano 
some old Scotch airs that her father loved, because 
Syl’s mother used to sing them; and Papa Gra¬ 
ham listened dreamily to the music, while his 
thoughts went back twenty years, to the first win¬ 
ter when he brought his girl-bride home, only a 
year older, then, than Syl was now. He remem¬ 
bered how the firelight used to shine on her fair, 
.upturned face, as she knelt beside him; how 
sweet her voice was; how pure and true and 
fond her innocent young heart. And now Syl 
was all he had left of her. 

Should he lose Syl herself, soon? Would some 
bold wooer come and carry her away, and leave 
him with only Aunt Rachel’s quiet figure and fad- 
■ ing face beside him for the rest of his life ? 

Just then Syl might have asked him not in vain 
for any thing, even to the half of his kingdom. 

Next morning Syl went into the sewing-room. 
10 



146 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


A young girl just about her own age was there — 
altering, sewing, making all the foolish little fan¬ 
cies in which Syl’s heart delighted, though her 
idle fingers never wrought at them. Out of pure 
kindness of heart Syl found her way into the sew 
ing-room very often when Mary Gordon was there. 
She knew her presence carried pleasure with it, 
and often she used to take some story or poem and 
read to the young listener, with the always busy 
fingers, and the gentle, grateful face. 

But to-day she found the girl’s eyes very red as 
if with long weeping. If Syl was selfish it was 
only because she never came in contact with the 
pains and needs of others. She had “ fed on the 
roses and lain among the lilies of life,” —how was 
she to know the hurt of its stinging nettles? But 
she could not have been the lovesome, charming 
girl she was if she had had a nature hard and 
indifferent to the pains of others. 

To see Mary Gordon’s red eyes was enough. 
Instantly she drew the work out of the fingers 
that trembled so ; and then she set herself to draw 
the secret sorrow out of the poor, trembling 
heart. 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


147 


It was the old story, so sadly common and yet 
so bitterly sad, of a mother wasting away and fad¬ 
ing out of life, and a daughter struggling to take 
care of her, and breaking her heart because she 
could do so little. 

“ I’m used to all that,” the girl said sadly, 
“ and I don’t let myself cry for what I can’t help. 
But this morning I heard her say to herself, as I 
was getting every thing ready for her, 1 O, the long, 
lonesome day ! ’ She thought I did not hear her, 
for she never complains ; but somehow it broke me 
down. I keep thinking of her, suffering and weary 
and all alone. But I can’t help that, either ; and 
I must learn to be contented in thinking that I 
do my best.” 

“ But can’t you stay at home with her and work 
there ? ” cried Syl, all eager sympathy and interest. 

“ No, I can’t get work enough in that way. 
People want their altering and fixing done in their 
own houses, and plain sewing pays so poorly. 
Sometimes I ’ve thought if I only had a machine, 
so I could get a great deal done, I might manage ; 
but to hire one would eat up all my„ profits.” 



148 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


Syl thought a little silent while; and it was a 
pretty sight to see the fair young face settle into 
such deep earnestness. 

“Well,” she said at length, “at least you shall 
stay at home with her to-morrow; for all those 
ruffles can be done just as well there as here, 
and you shall carry them home with .you. And 
you’d better go early this afternoon ; there ’ll 
be enough work to last you, and I can’t bear 
to think of her waiting for you, and wanting you, 
so many long hours. We ’ll give her a little sur¬ 
prise.” 

Mary Gordon did not speak for a moment. I 
think she was getting her voice steady, for when 
she did begin it trembled. 

“ I can't thank you, Miss Syl, — it’s no use to 
try; but the strange part is how you understand 
it all, when you’ve no mother yourself.” 

“ Ah, but } r ou see I have papa and auntie, and I 
just know.” 

That day, after Syl and Aunt Rachel had 
lunched together, Syl said, in a coaxing little 
way she had,— 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


149 


“ Aunt Rachel, we never want to see the other 
half of that cold chicken again, do we?” 

“ Why, Syl — we” — 

“ Why, auntie, no — we never want to-morrow’s 
lunch furnished coldly forth by this sad relic. 
And there’s a tumbler of jelly we don’t want, 
either — and those rolls, and, — let me see, can 
sick people eat cake?” 

“ Why, Syl Graham, what are you talking 
about! Who’s sick ? ” 

Syl grew sober. 

“ I’m thinking about poor Mary Gordon’s 
mother, auntie. She’s sick, and dying by inches ; 
and Mary has to leave her all alone; and I’ve 
told-her she shall stay at home to-morrow and 
make my ruffles, and we ’ll pay her just the same 
as if she came here. And don’t you see that we 
must give her her dinner to take home, since she 
can’t come here after it?” 

Aunt Rachel never said a word, but she got up 
and kissed Syl on each cheek. Then she brought 
a basket, and into it went the cold chicken and a 
cold tongue and jelly and buttered rolls and fruit, 



150 


NEW BED-TIME STOBIES. 


till even Syl .was satisfied; and she took the heavy 
basket and danced away with it to the sewing- 
room, with a bright light in her dear brown 
eyes. 

“ I think you ’d best go now,” she said. “ I 
can’t get your mother, waiting there alone, out of 
my mind, and it’s spoiling my afternoon, don’t 
you see ? And because you must n’t come here to 
dine to-morrow, you must carry your dinner home 
with you; and Aunt Rachel put some fruit and 
some jelly in the basket that maybe your mother 
will like.” 

That night, when Mr. Lucius Graham let him¬ 
self into the hall with his latch-key, his daughter 
heard him and went to meet him, as usual. . But 
she was very silent, and he missed his teasing, 
saucy, provoking Syl. 

“Why, daughter, are you in a dream?” he 
asked once during dinner; but she only laughed 
and shook her head. She held her peace until she 
had him at her mercy, in the great easy-chair, and 
she was on the stool beside him, as her wont was. 
Then, suddenly, her question came. 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


151 


“ Papa, do you think a pomegranate silk with¬ 
out velvet would be Yery bad ? ” 

He was inclined to tease her, and began with 
“ Hideous! ” but then he saw that her lips were 
fairly trembling, and her face full of eagerness, 
and forbore. 

“ How did you know you were to have the silk 
at all? But you know your power over me. 
Here is your needful; ” and he put into her hands 
ten bright, new twenty-dollar bills. 

“ O, thank you! and do you think it would be 
bad without the velvet?” 

“ Sylly, no; but why should n’t you have the 
velvet if you want it?” 

And then came the whole story of poor Mary 
Gordon, and — in such an eager tone,— 

“ Don’t you see, with the money the velvet 
would cost, and a little more, I could get her the 
sewing-machine ; and Madame Bodin would n’t 
ask so much to make the dress if it is plainer?” 

Mr. Graham was a rich man, and his first 
thought was to give her the money for the ma¬ 
chine, and let her have her pretty dress, as she had 



152 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


fancied it, first. But a second thought restrained 
him. She was just beginning to learn the joy and 
beauty of self-sacrifice. Should he interfere ? He 
kissed her with a half-solemn tenderness, and an¬ 
swered her, — 

“ You shall do precisely as you please, my dear. 
The two hundred dollars is yours. Use it just as 
you like. I shall never inquire into its fate again.” 

And then she went away — and was it her voice 
or that of some blessed spirit that came to him, a 
moment after, from the shadowy corner where the 
piano stood, singing an old middle-age hymn, 
about the city — 


“ Where all the glad life-music. 
Now heard no longer here. 
Shall come again to greet us. 
As we are drawing near.” 


The next day, who so busy and happy as Syl — 
dragging Aunt Rachel from one warehouse to 
another — it was in the days when sewing-ma¬ 
chines were costly — till she was quite sure she 
had found just the right machine; and then or- 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 153 

dering it sent, at three o’clock, no earlier, no later, 
to Miss Gordon, No. 2 Crescent Place. 

At a quarter before three Syl went there herself. 
The pleasure of witnessing Mary Gordon’s surprise 
was the thing she had promised herself, in lieu of 
velvet on her gown. She found the poor room 
neat and clean, and by no means without traces of 
comfort and refinement; and Mrs. Gordon was a 
sweet and gentle woman, such as Mary’s mother 
must have been to be in keeping with Mary. She 
chatted with them for a few minutes, noticing the 
invalid’s short breath and frequent cough, and 
Mary’s careful tenderness over her. 

“It’s too bad Mary can’t be at home all the 
time,” said Syl. 

“Yes; but then to have her to-day is such a 
blessing. If you knew how we had enjoyed our 
day together, and our feast together, I know you 
would feel paid for any inconvenience it cost you.” 

Just then an express wagon rumbled up to the 
door and the bell rang loudly. Mary opened 
it at once, for their room was on the ground 
floor. 



154 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ A sewing-machine for Miss Gordon,” said a 
somewhat gruff voice. 

“ No, that cannot be. There is some mistake,” 
said Mary’s gentle tones. And then Syl sprang 
forward, in a flutter of excitement, which would 
have been pretty to see had there been anybody 
there to notice it. 

“ I’m sure it’s all right. Bring it in, please ; 
and Mary, you will tell them where to put it, in 
the best light.” 

And in five minutes or less it was all in its 
place, and Mary was looking, with eyes full of 
wonder, and something else beside wonder, at 
Syl Graham. 

“ It’s nothing,” said Syl hurriedly ; “ it’s only 
my New Year’s present to you, a little in advance 
of time.” 

She had thought she should enjoy Mary’s sur¬ 
prise ; but this was something she had not looked 
for, — this utter breaking down, these great wild 
sobs, as if the girl’s heart would break. And 
when she could speak at length, she cried with a 
sort of passion, — 



HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER . 


155 


“ O Miss Syl, I do believe you have saved my 
mother’s life ! She will get better — she must — 
now that I can stay here all the time and take 
care of her.” 

S}d was glad to get out into the street. She 
felt something in her own throat choking her. 
Just a few steps off she met Dr. Meade, — her own 
doctor, as it chanced, — and it struck her that it 
would be a good thing if he would go in to see 
Mrs. Gordon. So she asked him. 

14 1 ’m going there,” he said. “ I try to see her 
once every week.” 

“ And will she live — can she ? ” 

The doctor answered, with half a sigh, — 

“ I’in afraid not. She needs more constant care, 
and more nourishing food and other things. I 
wish I could help her more, but I can only give my 
services, and I see so many such cases.” 

“ But she would take things from you, and not 
be hurt ? ” 

“ I should make her if I had a full purse to go 
to.” 

“ Well, then, here are forty dollars for her ; and 



156 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


you are to get her what she needs, and never let 
her know where it came from — will you ? ” 

“ Yes, I will,” he answered earnestly. And 
then, after a moment, he said,—“ Syl Graham, 
you are your mother’s daughter. I can say no bet¬ 
ter thing of you, — she was a good woman.” 

Syl had a hundred dollars left; but that 
would n’t compass the pomegranate silk, and Syl 
had concluded now she did not want it. She had 
had a glimpse of something better; and that hun¬ 
dred dollars would make many a sad heart glad 
before spring. 

On New Year’s Day, Papa Graham was off all 
day making calls ; and the gas was already lighted 
when he went into his own house, and into his 
own drawing-room. He saw a girl there with 
bands of bright chestnut hair about her graceful 
young head ; with shining eyes, and lips as bright 
as the vivid crimson roses in her braided hair, and 
in the bosom of her black silk gown. He looked 
at her with a fond pride and a fonder love ; and 
then he bent to kiss her, — for the room was 
empty of guests just then. As he lifted his head 




HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


15T 


and met Aunt Rachel’s eyes, it happened that he 
said about the same words Dr. Meade had used 
before,— 

“ She is her mother’s daughter; I can say of her 
no better thing.” 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH. 


J SUPPOSE if I had not loved Ruth Carson so 
much my resentment against her would not 
have been so bitter. She was my first friend. She 
had no sister, neither had I; and we used to think 
that no sisters could be nearer to each other than 
we were. She had black eyes,— great, earnest, 
beautiful eyes, with pride and tenderness both in 
them; sometimes one and sometimes the other in 
the ascendant. I was yellow-haired and blue-eyed ; 
but we always wanted our gowns and hats alike, 
and coaxed our mothers into indulging us. I don’t 
know whether Ruth suffered more in appearance 
when the clear dark of her face was set in my pale 
blues, or I, when her brilliant reds and orange 
turned me into a peony or a sunflower ; but we 
thought little about such effects in those days. If 
Ruth got her new article of attire first, I must 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH . 


159 


have one like it, whether or no; and if I was first 
favored, she followed my example. 

It was. thus in every thing. We studied from 
the same text-books, keeping a nearly even pace. 
Ruth was quicker than I at figures, so she helped 
me there ; and my eyes were better than her near¬ 
sighted ones at finding towns, mountains, and 
fivers on the atlas, so we always did our “ map 
questions ” together. Of course our play hours 
vere always passed in company, and one face was 
almost as familiar as the other in each of our 
houses. “ The twins,” people used to call us, for 
fun; and if ever two girls were all and all to each 
other, we were. 

What did we quarrel about? It is a curious 
thing that I have forgotten how it began. It was 
some little difference of opinion, such as seldom 
occurred between us; and then, “ what so wild as 
words are?” We said one thing after another, 
until, finally, Ruth’s black eyes flashed, and she 
cried out passionately,— 

“ I just about hate you, Sue Morrison ! ” 

Then my temper flamed. It was a different 



160 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


kind of temper from Ruth’s,— slower to take fire, 
but much more sullen and resolute. I loved her 
as I did my own life, but I hated her also, just 
then, — if you can understand that contradiction. 
I looked at her, and I remember I thought, even 
then, how handsome she was, with the red glow 
on her cheeks, and her eyes so strangely bright. 
I could have kissed her for love, or cursed her for 
hate ; but the hate triumphed. Slowly I said, — 

“Very well, Ruth Carson. I shall not trouble 
you any more. I shall never speak to you again, 
until I see you lie a-dying.” 

I don’t know what made me put that last sen¬ 
tence in. I suppose I thought, even then, that I 
could not have her go out of the world, for good 
and all, without one tender word from me. When 
I spoke, Ruth turned pale, and the light died in 
her eyes. I presume she did not think I really 
meant what I said ; but, at any rate, it startled her. 
She did not answer. She just looked at me a mo¬ 
ment. Then she turned away, and, for the first 
time in years, she and I walked home, so far as our 
roads lay the same way, on opposite sides of the 
street. • 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH. 


161 


“ Where is Ruth ? ” my mother asked, when I 
went in. 

“ Gone home, I believe,” was my only answer. 

It seemed to me that I could not tell even my 
mother of this estrangement, which had changed 
in a day the whole current of my life. Of course, 
as time went on, she saw that all was different 
between Ruth and me ; but, finding that I did not 
voluntarily tell her any thing, she ceased even to 
mention Ruth in my presence. 

You cannot think how strange and solitary my 
new life seemed to me. For the first time since I 
could remember I felt all alone. I don’t think 
Ruth thought this unnatural state of things could 
last. The first day after our quarrel she spoke to 
me, at school, half timidly. I looked at her, and 
did not answer. She sighed, and turned away; 
and again, when school was over, each of us went 
home alone on our separate path. 

Sometimes I would find a bunch of roses on my 
desk, for it was June when our quarrel took place, 
and all the roses were in bloom. Then, later, I 
would lift up the desk cover and come upon an 
11 '' 



162 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


early apple or a peach; later still, a handful of 
chestnuts. I always let the roses wither without 
touching them; and the fruit I gave away, as if 
unconscious where it came from. Ruth would 
watch me and sigh; but after that first morning 
she never spoke to me. I think my rebuff then 
hurt her too much for her to be willing to risk re¬ 
ceiving such another. What a strange, new, sad 
thing it was to get our lessons, as we did now, all 
alone ! How the hateful figures tormented me, 
without Ruth’s quick brain to help me unravel 
them ! How puzzled she looked, as I saw her hold¬ 
ing the map close to her near-sighted eyes, trying 
to find the rivers and lakes and mountains all by 
herself! . 

It was a curious thing that after the first two or 
three days my anger had passed away entirely. I 
Held no longer the least bitterness in my heart 
toward Ruth; and yet I felt that I must keep my 
word. I looked upon my rash utterance as a vow, 
for which I had a sort of superstitious reverence. 
Then, too, there was a queer, evil kind of pride 
about me, — something that would n’t let me speak 




MY QUARREL WITH RUTH. 


163 


to her when I had said I would n’t, — would n’t let 
me show her that I was sorry. The teacher spoke 
to me about the trouble between me and Ruth, but 
he might as well have spoken to a blank wall, — I 
did not even answer him. Whether he said any 
thing to Ruth I do not know. 

In the late fall there was a vacation, which held 
over Thanksgiving. I had an idea that my mother 
watched me curiously to see how I would pass 
those weeks without Ruth. But I was resolute to 
show no pain or loneliness. I made occupations for 
myself. I read ; 1 worked worsted ; I crocheted; 
I copied out poems in my common-place book ; I 
was busy from morning till night. One thing I did 
not do, — I did not take another friend in Ruth’s 
stead. Several of the girls had shown themselves 
willing to fill the vacant place, but they soon found 
that 44 No admittance here ” was written over the 
door. I think they tried the same experiment with 
Ruth, with the same result. At any rate, each of 
us went on our solitary way, quite alone. Ruth 
had her own pride, too, as well as I; and, after a 
little while, she would no more have spoken to me 



164 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


than I to her; but she could not help those great, 
dark eyes of hers resting on me sometimes with a 
wistful, inquiring look, that almost brought the 
tears to mine. 

School commenced again the first of December. 
Ruth came, the first day, in her new winter dress. 
It was a deep, rich red; and somehow she made 
me think of the spicy little red roses of Burgundy, 
that used to grow in my grandmother’s old-fash¬ 
ioned garden. My own new gown was blue. For 
the first time in years, Ruth and I were dressed 
differently. We were no longer “the twins.” I 
thought Ruth looked a little sad. She was very 
grave. I never heard her laugh in these days. 
When it rained or snowed, and we stayed at school 
through the noonings, instead of going home for 
our dinner, neither of us would join in the games 
that made the noontime merry. I suppose each 
was afraid of too directly encountering the other. 

But when the good skating came, both of us 
used to be on the pond. The whole school, teacher 
and all, would turn out on half holidays. Both 
Ruth and I were among the best skaters in school. 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH . 


165 


My father had taught us, two or three winters be¬ 
fore, and we had had great pride in our skill. We 
had always skated in company before ; but now, as 
in every thing else we did, we kept at a distance 
from each other. 

The pond used to be a pretty sight, on those 
crisp, keen winter afternoons, all alive with boys 
and girls. A steep hill rose on one side of it, 
crowned by a pine wood, green all the winter 
through. Great fields of snow stretched far and 
away on the other side, and in the midst was the 
sheet of ice, smooth as glass. Here was a scarlet 
hood, and there a boy’s gay Scotch cap. Here 
some adventurer was cutting fantastic capers; 
there a girl was struggling with her first skates, 
and falling down at almost every step. I loved 
the pastime, — the keen, clear air, the swift mo¬ 
tion, the excitement. I loved to watch Ruth, too; 
for by this time not only was all the bitterness 
gone from my heart, but the old love was welling 
up, sweet and strong, though nothing would have 
made me acknowledge it to myself. Wherever 
she moved, my far-sighted eyes followed her; and, 




166 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


indeed, she was a pretty sight, the prettiest there, 
in her bright scarlet skating dress, and with her 
cheeks scarcely less scarlet, and her great eyes 
bright as -stars. 

There came a day, at last, when we promised 
ourselves an afternoon of glorious skating. The 
ice was in excellent condition, the sky was cloud¬ 
less, the weather cold, indeed, but not piercing, 
and the air exhilarating as wine. I ate my dinner 
hurriedly — there was no time to lose out of such 
an afternoon. I rose from the table before the 
rest, put on my warm jacket and my skating-cap, 
and was just leaving the house when my father 
called after me. 

“ Be very careful of the west side of the pond, 
Sue. They have been cutting a good deal of ice 
there.” 

The whole school was out; only when I first 
got there I did not see Ruth. The teacher re¬ 
peated to us what my father had said, but I remem¬ 
bered afterward that it was not till he had done 
speaking that Ruth came in sight, looking, in her 
bright scarlet, like some tropical bird astray under 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH. 


167 


our pale northern skies. As usual she and I be¬ 
gan skating at some distance from each other, but 
gradually I drew nearer and nearer to her. I had 
no reason for this. I did not mean to speak to her, 
and the pride that held me from her was as un¬ 
tamed as ever. But yet something for which I 
could not account drew me towards her. 

Did she see me, and wish to avoid me ? I did 
not know; but suddenly she began to skate 
swiftly away from me, and toward the dangerous 
west side of the pond. I think I must have called, 
“Come back! come back!” but if I did, she did 
not heed or hear. She was skating on, oh, so fast! 
I looked around in despair — I was nearer to her 
than any one else was. I shouted, with all my 
might, to Mr. Hunt, the teacher. I thought I saw 
him turn at the sound of my voice, but I did not 
wait to be sure. I just skated after Ruth. 

I never can tell you about that moment. All 
the love with whi.ch I had loved her swept back 
over my heart like a great flood. Pride and bitter¬ 
ness, what did they mean ? I only knew that I 
had loved Ruth Carson as I should never, never 



168 


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love any other friend ; and that if she died I wanted 
to die too, and be friends with her again in the 
next world, if I could not here. I think I called 
to her, but the call was wasted upon the wind 
which always bore my voice the other way. So 
Ruth skated on and on, and I skated after her. 
Whether any one was coming behind me I did not 
know. I never even looked over my shoulder. 
It seemed to me that some mad wind of destiny 
was sweeping us both ahead. 

Suddenly there came a plash, the scarlet cap ap¬ 
peared a moment above the ice, and then that went 
under, and there was no Ruth in sight, anywhere. 
You cannot think how calm I was. I wonder at it 
now, looking back over so many years, to that 
bright, sad, far-off winter day. I succeeded in 
checking my own headlong speed, and, drawing 
near cautiously to the spot where Ruth had gone 
down, I threw myself along the ice. It was thick 
and strong, and had been cut. into squares, so it 
bore me up. I looked over the edge. Ruth was 
rising toward me. I reached down and clutched 
her, I hardly know by what. At that moment I 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH. 


169 


felt my ankles grasped firmly by two strong hands, 
and then I knew that I could save Ruth. I held 
her until some one helped me to pull her out, 
and then I don’t know what came next. 

I waked up, long afterward, in my own bed, in 
my own room. I seemed to myself to have been 
quite away from this world, on some long journey. 
A consciousness of present things came back to 
me slowly. I recalled with a shudder the hard, 
sharply cut ice, the water gurgling below, and 
Ruth, my Ruth, with her great black eyes and her 
bright, bonny face, going down, down. I cried 
out, — 

“ Ruth! Ruth! where are you ? ” 

And then I turned my head, and there, beside 
me, she lay, my pretty Ruth — mine again, after so 
long. 

“ She clung to you so tightly we could not sepa¬ 
rate you,” I heard my mother say; but all my be¬ 
ing was absorbed in looking at Ruth. She was 
white as death. I had said I would not speak to 
her again until I saw her lie a-dying. Was she 
dying now ? I lifted myself on my elbow to look 



170 


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at her. I held my own breath to see if any came 
from her half-parted lips ; and as I looked, her 
eyes unclosed, and she put her arm up, —oh, so fee¬ 
bly!— and struggled to get it round my neck. I 
bent over her, and one moment our lips clung to¬ 
gether, in such a kiss as neither of us had ever 
known before — a kiss snatched from death, and full 
of peace and pardon, and the unutterable bliss of a 
restored love. Then Ruth whispered, — 

“ Sue, I have been only half a girl since I lost 
you. I would rather have died there, in the black 
water from which you saved me, than not to find 
you again.” 

“ I thought you were dying, Ruth,” I whispered 
back, holding her close; “ and if you were, I 
meant to die too. I would have gone after you 
into the water but what I would have had you 
back.” 

Then we were too weak to say any thing more. 
We just lay there, our hands clasped closely, in 
an ineffable content. Our mothers came and went 
about us ; all sorts of tender cares were lavished 
on us of which we took no heed. I knew only one 



MY QUARREL WITH RUTH. 


171 


thing, — that I had won back Ruth; Ruth knew 
only one thing, — that once more she was by my 
side. 

That was our first and our last quarrel. I think 
no hasty word was ever spoken between us after¬ 
ward. The first one had cost us too dear. 



WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


TUST a little voice, calling through the dark, 
“ Mamma, O mamma ! ” and then a low 
sound of stifled sobbing. 

Colonel Trevethick heard them both, and they 
smote him with a new sense of loss and pain. He 
had scarcely thought of his little girl since his wife 
died, five hours before, — died at the very instant 
when she was kissing him good-by, taking with her 
into the far heavens the warm breath of his human 
love. He had loved her as, perhaps, men seldom 
love, from the first hour of their first meeting. 

“ There is Maud Harrison,” some one had said; 
and he had turned to look, and met the innocent 
gaze of two frank, gentle, very beautiful brown 
eyes. “ Brightest eyes that ever have shone,” he 
said to himself. Their owner had other charms 
besides, — a fair and lovely face, round which the 



WAS IT HER MOTHER t 


1TB 


ruffled hair made a soft, bright halo ; a lithe, girl¬ 
ish figure ; a manner of unaffected cordiality, blent 
with a certain maidenly reserve, and which seemed 
to him perfection. He loved her, then and there. 
His wooing was short and his wedding hasty; but 
he had never repented his haste, never known an 
unhappy hour from the moment he brought his 
wife home, nine years ago, till these last few days, 
in which he had seen that no love or care of his 
could withhold her from going away from him to 
another home where he could not follow her, — the 
home where she had gone now, far beyond his search. 

She was a good little creature, and she did not 
rebel even at the summons to go out of her earthly 
Eden in search of the paradise of God. She 
longed, indeed, to live, for she so loved her own, 
and she could have resigned herself to die more 
willingly but for her husband’s uncontrollable pas¬ 
sion of woe. That very day she had said to him, 
as he knelt beside her,— 

“Do not grieve so, darling! I am not going so 
far but that I shall come back to you every day. 
Something tells me that I shall be always near you 



174 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


and Maudie. You cannot call, or she cry, but 
that I shall hear you. I know that when she most 
needs, or you most want me, I shall be close be¬ 
side you.” 

And with that very last kiss, when her breath 
was failing, she had whispered,— 

“ I shall not go so far as you think.” 

Now when he heard the low call of his little 
Maudie and her smothered sobbing, he remem¬ 
bered the words of his dead wife. Did she, in¬ 
deed, hear Maudie cry, and was it possibly troub¬ 
ling her? He got up and went into the little 
room where the child had slept alone ever since 
her sixth birthday, a couple of months ago. He 
bent over her low bed, and asked tenderly, — 

“ What is it, darling? ” 

A tiny night-gowned figure lifted itself up and 
two little arms clung round his neck. 

“ Bessie put me to bed without taking me to 
mamma. Mamma did not kiss me good-night, and 
I want she should, — oh, I want she should ! Bessie 
would n’t carry me to see her; and I want you to. 
Bessie said mamma never would kiss me again; 




WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


175 


but that is n’t true, is it? You know I ’ve heard 
inamma say Bessie was n’t always ’sponsible.” 

Colonel Trevethick considered for a moment what 
he should say to his child — how he could make 
her understand the great, sad, awful, yet trium¬ 
phant mystery which had come to pass that day 
under their roof—the great loss, and the great 
hope that hallowed it. 

She was such a mere baby it seemed hard to 
choose his words. Must he tell her that her mam¬ 
ma would never kiss her again? But how did he 
know that? When j;he dear Lord promised the 
“ all things ” to those who loved Him, did it not 
include the joining of broken threads, the up- 
springing of dead hopes, the finding one’s own 
again, somewhere? He thought it must; for 
what a word without meaning heaven would be 
to him if his own Maud were not there! He tem¬ 
porized a little. 

“ She cannot kiss you now, my darling, but you 
shall kiss her.” 

So he lifted the little white figure in his arms, 
holding it close, as one who must be father and 



176 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


mother both together, now, and carried his little 
one across the hall to the room, where her dead 
mother lay, — oh, so fast asleep ! — with a look like 
a smile frozen upon her fair, sweet face. He held 
Maudie down by the pillow on which her moth¬ 
er’s head rested, but that did not satisfy her. 

“ Put me on the bed, please, papa. I get on the 
bed eveiy night and kiss her, since she’s been ill.” 

So he let her have her will; and for a moment 
she nestled close to the still dead heart, which had 
always beaten for her so warmly. Then she lifted 
up her head. 

“ Mamma is very cold,” she said, “ and she does 
not stir. Can she hear what I say?” 

Again something invisible seemed to warn him 
against taking away from the child her mother. 
He answered very gently and slowly,— 

“ She’s dead, my darling, — what we call dead. 
I do not understand it — no one understands it; 
but it comes, one day, to everybody, and it is 
God’s will. Your mamma cannot speak to us any 
more, and soon she will be gone out of our sight; 
but she truly believed that she would always be 



WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


177 


able to see your face and hear your voice, as when 
she was here.” 

“ She is here. Won’t she be here always ? ” the 
little girl asked, growing cold with the shadow of 
an awful fear. 

“ No, dear, she will not be here long. In a few 
days this dear white face will be put away, under¬ 
neath the grass and the flowers; but the real 
mamma, who loves little Maudie, will not be bur¬ 
ied up. She will be somewhere, I truly believe, 
where she can see and hear her little girl.” 

For a moment the child slid again from his 
arms, and nestled close against the cold breast, 
kissed the unmoving lips. Then she said,— 

“ Good-by, this mamma, who can't see ; and good¬ 
night, other mamma, that hears Maudie.” 

Colonel Trevethick marvelled. Had he, indeed, 
succeeded in making this little creature under¬ 
stand; or had some one whom he could not see 
spoken to her words of sweet mother-wisdom ? 

He carried her then, and laid her in her little 
bed, and went back to his own loneliness; but half \ 
an hour afterward he heard the small voice calling, 

12 



178 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“Papa, papa!” and again he went to her, and the 
little arms came up around his neck, and held him 
fast. 

“Can’t I go too, papa? tf you ask God, won’t 
He let me ? Because I do so love my mamma.” 

That afternoon Colonel Trevethick had felt as if 
he had nothing at all left in this world; but now 
he realized how much emptier still his home might 
be if he lost out of it this child who was so like 
her mother. 

“ Mamma would not want you to come,” he 
said passionately. “ She has all heaven, and I 
only you, — only you, little Maudie, in all the 
world. Mamma wants you to stay with me.” 

After that she was quite quiet; and when he 
looked in at her, an hour later, she was sound 
asleep, with one little hand like a crushed white 
rose under the red rose of her flushed cheek. 

She never asked for her mother after that night; 
but her father was sure that she never forgot her. 
She was the strangest, gravest little creature. She 
never made any noise, even at her play; and she 
never did any of the things for which her mother 



WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


179 


had been used to reprove her. The trouble was 
that she was too perfect; there was something 
unnatural about it which frightened Colonel Treve- 
thick. He would have been glad if she had been 
naughty, sometimes, like other children. He 
longed to have her tease him, to see in her some 
spirit of naughtiness or contradiction ; but he saw 
none. She grew tall quite fast, but she was very 
thin, — a little white wraith of a creature, who 
looked as if she had been made out of snow, and 
might melt away as soon. 

It was a good thing for Colonel Trevethick, no 
doubt, that he had her to tend, and to be anxious 
about. It kept him from surrendering himself to 
his own grief. 

Nearly two years went on, and all the time the 
little girl grew more and more frail; until, at last, 
when she had just passed her eighth birthday, she 
was taken very ill. Her illness seemed a sort of 
low, nervous fever, and she grew daily more fee¬ 
ble. A skilful nurse came to share with Bessie 
the task of tending her, and her father was seldom 
far away. Half the day he would be sitting in 



180 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


her room, and half a dozen times in the night he 
would steal in to watch her breathing. 

One afternoon, as he sat by her bed, she looked 
up at him with a sad, tender look, too old for her 
years, — but then all her words and ways were too 
old for her years. 

“ Papa,” she said, “ I would get well if I could, 
to please you. I should get well, I know, if I had 
mamma to nurse me. Don’t you know how she 
used, if my head ached, to put her hand on it and 
make it stop ? ” 

A sudden mist of tears came between his eyes 
and the little white face looking up at him. She 
had not spoken before of her mother for so many 
months, and yet how well she remembered! In¬ 
stantly his wife’s words, that last day, came back 
to his memory. She had said, “ I know that 
when Maudie needs me most, or you most want 
me, I shall be there beside you.” 

Was she there now? Could she breathe upon 
the little wasting life some me'rciful dew of heal¬ 
ing? or was she, perhaps, by her very love and 
longing, drawing the child home to herself? 



WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


181 


That night Bessie was ter sit up until one 
o’clock, and then to call the nurse. As for Col¬ 
onel Trevethick, he would be in and out, as 
usual. 

lie went to bed, and fell into sleep and a dream. 
His own Maud was beside him as he saw her first, 
then as his bride, his wife, then with Baby Maudie 
on her breast; just as of old he seemed to have 
her with him again, — his pride, his darling, the 
one woman he had ever loved. 

He woke at last. Had his dream, then, lasted 
the night through ? Was this red ray that touched 
his face the first hint of the rising sun? He 
sprang up quickly. The whole night had indeed 
passed, and he had not seen Maudie. He hurried 
into a dressing-gown and went to her room. He 
expected to find the nurse there, but, instead, 
Bessie sat beside the table just where he had left 
her the night before, but sound asleep. Evidently 
she must have been asleep for hours, and had not 
called the nurse, who had slept in her turn : they 
were all tired enough, Heaven knows. But, mean¬ 
time, what of Maudie ? What harm had come to 
her, alone, unattended? 



182 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


He drew aside the curtain of her little bed and 
looked in. Surely this was not the Maud he had 
left the night before, so pale and worn upon her 
pillows? A face looked up at him bright as the 
new day. A soft, healthy color was in the cheeks, 
and the moist lips were crimson. 

“ I knew I should be well if she tended me,” 
a voice cried, gayer and gladder than he had heard 
from her lips in two years. 

What did the child mean ? Had she gone mad ? 
He controlled himself, and asked, — 

44 Who tended you, my child ? I found Bessie 
sound asleep.” 

44 Yes; mamma made het sleep, and you, and 
nurse. She sent all 4 of you the dreams you like 
best; and all night long she sat here beside my 
bed, with her hand on my head, just as she used 
to put it long ago. She was all in white, and her 
hair fell about her shoulders, and her eyes were 
very, very bright, and her lips, when she kissed 
me, seemed somehow to melt away.” 

44 So you, too, dreamed about mamma, darling?” 

44 No, indeed, papa, I did not dream. Mamma 



WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


183 


sat there all night long, with her hand upon my 
head. Sometimes I slept, but more often I woke 
up to look at her; and all the time she sat there, 
and did not tire, until the first sunshine came in at 
the windows; and then she kissed me and went 
away. I did not see her go. Perhaps I shut my 
eyes a moment. Then I looked and she was gone, 
and then I heard you coming in. She said she 
was with me every day, but she couldn’t have 
come to me like this , except because I needed her 
so very, very much. And she wanted to make me 
well, because you would grieve for me if I came 
to her; and I was to be very good, and tend you 
and make you comfortable ; and I must laugh and 
must make you laugh, for laughter was good, and 
the reason I got ill was because I had been sorry 
so long, and had not laughed at all. And I was not 
to be sorry after her any more, because she was 
very happy, and nothing grieved her except when 
she saw you and me mourning for her, and 
not knowing that she was waiting close beside 
us.” 

“Fas it her mother? Can it be it was the 



184 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


child’s mother ? ” the father cried, uttering his 
thought aloud unconsciously. 

“ Of course it was mamma; and she has made 
me well. See if Dr. Dale does not tell you I am 
well.” 

Two hours afterward Dr. Dale came. He stood 
for a few moments beside the little bed. He 
looked in the child’s glad eyes, he counted the 
throbs of her pulse, he made her put out her 
healthy little tongue. Then he turned to her 
father. 

“ Trevethick,” he said, “can you swear that this 
is the same little girl I left here last night? If the 
days of miracles were not gone by, I should say 
that one had been wrought here. I left, I thought, 
a very sick little person, about whom I was anx¬ 
ious enough, certainly, to make this my first call 
this morning; and I find my small patient so well 
that I shall only keep her in bed a day or two 
longer, for form’s sake.” 

“Perhaps it is a miracle,” Colonel Trevethick 
said, smiling. But he did not explain. There are 
some experiences too marvellous for belief and 



WAS IT HER MOTHER? 


185 


too sacred for doubt or question, and that was 
one of them. 

Two days afterward little Maudie went down to 
tea. She wore a fresh white gown, with lovely 
blue ribbons, and looked as much like a little 
angel in festal attire as a human child can be 
expected to look. But she did not take her usual 
seat. She sat down, instead, behind the tea-pot, 
where Bessie usually stood to pour out the tea. 

“ Had n’t- Bessie better do that ? ” papa asked, 
as he saw the little hand close round the handle 
of the tea-pot. 

But Maud laughed, and shook her head. 

“No, I don’t think Bessie is ’sponsible,” she 
said; “ and mamma said I was to live just on pur¬ 
pose to do every thing for papa.” 

And again Colonel Trevetliick asked, but this 
tiihe silently,— 

“Was it — could it have been the child’s mo¬ 
ther?” 



THE LADY FROM OYER THE WAY. 


JT was the twilight of Christmas evening,— 
that twilight which always seems so early, since 
nobody is ever quite ready for it. The pale gray 
of the winter’s sky was scarcely flushed by the 
low-lying sunset clouds, though sometimes you 
could catch a gleam of their scant brightness as 
you turned westward. 

The streets of New York were crowded, as 
usual, but everybody seemed even more than 
usually in a hurry. The air was intensely cold, 
and nipped the noses of those who were late with 
their Christmas shopping; but, in spite of it, men 
and women still jostled each other upon the side¬ 
walk, or stopped to look at the tempting displays 
of holiday goods in the shops. Everybody, it 
seemed, had some small person at home who must 
be made happy to-morrow. 



THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 187 


From the window of a large but rusty-looking 
house on one of the avenues, two children looked 
down at the throng below, as they had been look¬ 
ing all day. They were in the fourth story of the 
house, and they could not see into the street very 
distinctly, but still the movement and the bustle 
interested them, and their mother was thankful 
that they had it to watch. 

She herself was sewing, catching the last glint 
of the sunset light for her work, as she had the 
first ray of the dawning. She had been a beau¬ 
tiful, high-bred woman; indeed, she was so still, 
though there was no one to note the unconscious 
elegance of her gestures or the graceful lines of 
her curving figure and bent head. She was very 
thin now, and very poorly clad, but a stranger 
would have felt that she was a lady, and won¬ 
dered how she came in the fourth story of this 
house, — a great house, which had been handsome, 
too, in its day, but which was now let out to innu¬ 
merable lodgers, mostly of the decent sort of 
honest, hard-working, half-starved poor people. 
Not with such neighbors had Mrs. Vanderheyden’s 



188 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


lot been formerly cast, nor for such uses as this 
had the old house itself been designed. It had 
been a stately mansion in its time, belonging to 
the estate of a good old Knickerbocker family, 
which was quite run out now. But there was one 
great comfort in this house: it had been so well 
built that its thick walls shut out all alien noises 
effectually, and made solitude possible even in a 
tenement house. Perhaps Mrs. Vanderheyden had 
thought of this when she chose her abode there. 

There was something in the faded grandeur of 
the old mansion that harmonized with the lin¬ 
gering grace of her own faded beauty. Its lofty 
walls were wainscoted with carved oak, almost 
black with time; and any imaginative person 
would have been likely to people it with the 
ghosts of the beautiful girls whose room no doubt 
this was in the old days. There, between those 
windows, hung, perhaps, their great, gleaming 
mirror, and into it they looked, all smiles and 
blushes and beauty, when they were ready for 
their first ball. But Mrs. Vanderheyden’s two 
little girls did not think of the other girls who 



THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 189 


might have lived there once. They were too 
young for that, and too hungry. Ethel, the elder, 
was only ten; and shy little Annie, beside her, 
scarcely seven. They saw a sight, however, from 
the window at which they stood, that interested 
them more than any vision of the past would 
have done. 

The avenue on which they lived was in a tran¬ 
sition state. Trade had come into it and lodging- 
houses had vulgarized it, and yet there were some 
of the rich old residents who still clung to the 
houses in which their fathers and mothers had 
lived and died. There was one such directly oppo¬ 
site ; and to look into the parlor over the way, 
and see there all the warmth and brightness and 
beauty of which they themselves were deprived, 
had been one of the chief enjo} r ments of the 
little Vanderheydens ever since they had been in 
the house. They were all that Mrs. Vander- 
heyden had left, these two girls. Wealth was 
gone, friends were gone, father and father’s home, 
husband and husband’s home — hope itself was 
gone ; but she was not quite alone while she had 



190 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


these two for whom to struggle — to live or to die, 
as Heaven would. It was for their sakes that she 
had worked from dawning till nightfall, though 
she had felt all the time what seemed to her a 
mortal sickness stealing over her. Their break¬ 
fast and dinner had been only bread, of which she 
herself had scarcely tasted ; but to-morrow would 
be Christmas, and it should go hard with her but 
she would give them better fare then. A dozen 
times during the day one or the other little voice 
had asked anxiously,— 

“ Shall we surely, surely, have dinner to-mor¬ 
row, because it is Christmas Day?” 

And she had answered, — 

“ Please Heaven, you surely shall. My work is 
almost done ; ” and then she had stitched away 
more resolutely than ever on the child’s frock 
she was elaborately embroidering. The children 
meanwhile were feeding upon hope, and watching 
a scene in the house over the way, where, as they 
thought, all that any human creature could pos¬ 
sibly hope for had already been given. Busy 
preparations had been made in that other house 



THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 191 


for Christmas. There was a great Christmas-tree 
in one corner, all full of little tapers, and a large, 
fair, gentle-looking woman had been engaged 
much of the afternoon in arranging gifts npon 
it. Now, with the twilight, a boy and girl had 
come in and were watching the lighting up of the 
Christmas-tree. 

“ It’s so good of them not to pull the curtains 
down,” Ethel said, with a sigh of delight. “It’s 
almost as good as being there — almost.” 

“ I do suppose that’s the very grandest house in 
all New York,” little Annie said, in a tone of awe 
and admiration. 

“Nonsense! You only think that because you 
are so little,” answered Ethel, from the height of her 
three years more of experience. “You forget, but 
I can remember. We had a finer house ourselves* 
before poor papa died. There are plenty of them, 
only we ’re so poor we don’t see them.” 

“Oh, it’s good to be that little girl!” cried 
Annie. “See how pretty her dress is, and how 
her hair curls ; and she ’ll have lots of presents 
off that Christmas-tree.” 



192 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“So should we, if we had papa,” Ethel an¬ 
swered gravely. “Mamma, when we get up to 
heaven, do you think papa will know we ’re his 
little girls ? ” 

“I’m sure he will,” Mrs. Vanderheyden an¬ 
swered ; and then she rose wearily. “ It’s all 
done,” she said, as she shook out the lovely little 
robe into which she had wrought so many patient 
stitches. “ I cannot carry it home just yet, I am 
so tired; I must lie down first; but you shall 
have a good dinner to-morrow, my darlings.” 

The children had seen hei* very tired before, 
and they didn’t think much about it when she 
groped her way to a bed in the corner and lay 
down, drawing the scant bed-clothes up over her. 
They stood at the window still, and watched the 
merry children opposite, until at last a servant 
came and ’pulled down the curtains and shut away 
from them the Christmas-tree, with all its gleaming 
lights, and the boy and girl, who were dancing round 
it to some gay tune which their mother played. 

Then Ethel and Annie began to realize that 
they were cold and hungry and the room was 



THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 193 


dark. Ethel lit a candle. The fire was nearly out, 
but she would not make another till morning. 

“ I won’t wake up mamma,” she said, with the 
premature thoughtfulness that characterized her ; 
“ she’s so tired. We’ll just have supper, and 
then I ’ll hear you say ‘ Our Father,’ and we ’ll 
get to bed, and in the morning it will be Christ¬ 
mas.” 

Some vague promise of good was in the very 
word: Ethel did not know what would come, but 
surely Christmas would not be like other days. 
“Supper” was the rest of the bread. And then 
the two little creatures knelt down together and 
said their well-known prayers, and I think “ Our 
Father” heard, for their sleep was just as sweet 
as if they had been in the warm, soft nest of the 
children over the way, tucked in with eider down. 
Through the long evening hours they slept,— 
through the solemn midnight, when the clear, 
cold Christmas stars looked down, just as they 
had looked centuries ago when the King of Glory, 
Himself a little child, lay asleep in an humble 
manger in Judea. Nothing troubled their quiet 
13 



194 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


slumber until the sunshine of the Christmas morn¬ 
ing broke through their dingy windows, and the 
day had begun. 

“ It must be ever so late,” said Ethel, rubbing 
her sleepy eyes, “and mamma isn’t awake yet. 
But she was so tired. You lie still, Annie, and 
I ’ll build the fire, and when she wakes up she ’ll 
find it all done.” 

Very patiently the poor little half-frozen fingers 
struggled with the scant kindlings and the coal 
that seemed determined never to light; but they 
succeeded at last, and the room began to grow a lit¬ 
tle warm. Then she dressed Annie, and then it be¬ 
gan to seem very late indeed, and she wondered if 
mamma would never wake up. She went to the 
bedside and, bending over, kissed her mother gen¬ 
tly, then started back with a sudden alarm. 

“ Why, Annie, she’s so cold — almost like poor 
papa — only you can’t remember — just before they 
took him away.” 

“ No, she can’t be like papa,” Annie said stout¬ 
ly, “ for he was dead, and mamma is asleep.” 

“ Yes, she’s asleep,” said the elder sister firm- 



THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 195 


1 y. “We must wait till she wakes up. We’ll 
look over the way, and then, maybe, it won’t seem 
so long.” 

But over the way was brighter than ever this 
Christmas morning. The curtains had been looped 
back once more, the table glittered with lovely 
gifts, and presently the little girl who lived there 
came to the windows. She looked up at them — 
they were sure of it; but they could not have 
guessed what she said, as she turned away, and 
spoke to her mother. 

“ O mamma,” cried the sweet young voice, 
“ won’t you come and see these two poor little 
girls? They stood there all day yesterday and 
last night; and now see how sad they look. I can’t 
eat my Christmas candies or play with my Christ¬ 
mas things while they look so pale and lonesome. 
Won’t you go over and see them, mamma dear?” 

Mrs. Rosenburgh was a woman of warm and earn¬ 
est sympathies when once they were aroused. 
When she was a girl she too had had quick im¬ 
pulses like her child’s ; but she had grown selfish, 
perhaps, as she grew older, or maybe only careless ; 



196 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


for the quick sympathies were there still, as you 
could see, now that her little girl had touched them. 

“ To be sure I will,” she answered at once. 
“ Poor little things! I wish we could make merry 
Christmas for all New York; but since we can’t, 
at least we won’t have faces white with want look¬ 
ing in at our very windows.” 

So the watching, wondering children saw the 
large, fair lady wrap herself in a heavy shawl and 
tie a hood over her head, and then come out and 
cross the street and enter their house. 

“ What if she saw us, and what if she is com¬ 
ing here ! ” Ethel said breathlessly. 

Then they listened as if their hearts were in 
their ears. They heard feet upon the stairs and 
then a gentle tap, and the lady from over the way 
stood in their room. 

“ I saw you at the window,” she said, “ and came 
over to wish you a merry Christmas. How is 
this ? Are you all alone ? ” 

“ No, ma’am, mamma is in the bed there ; but she 
was very tired yesterday, and she hasn’t waked 
up.” 




THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 197 


An awful terror seized Mrs. Rosenburgh. Had 
this woman died of want and weariness, in sight of 
her own windows? She stepped to the bedside, 
and drew away the clothes gently from the face of 
the sleeper. She looked a moment on that fair, 
faded face, and then she grew white as death. 

“ Children,” she asked, “ what are your names ? ” 

U I am Ethel Vanderheyden,” the oldest girl an¬ 
swered, “ and she is Annie.” 

“And your mother — was she Ethel Carlisle 
once ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am, before she married papa.” 

“ And your little sister is Annie ? ” 

“Yes; she was named for mamma’s best friend, 
one she had n’t seen for a long, long time.” 

Meanwhile Mrs. Rosenburgh had knelt by the 
bedside. She had lifted the low-lying head upon 
her arm, and drawn a bottle of pungent salts from 
her pocket, and she was crying as if her heart 
would break, while the children looked wondering 
on. 

“ O Ethel, my own old Ethel, wake up! ” And 
then she dropped her cheek, all wet with tears, 




198 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


against the white, cold cheek, that was so 
still. 

Oh, was it the warm tears, or the voice that 
sounded from far away out of the past, or only the 
strong odor that roused the poor soul from that 
long, heavy sleep of exhaustion that had so nearly 
been the sleep of death? I do not know, but I 
know the eyes did open, and beheld the tender 
face bending above them. And then, like a little 
child, the children heard their mother cry, — 

“ O Annie, Annie, have I been dreaming all 
this time ? ” 

And then there were explanations, and the story 
of the long years since Annie Bryant and Ethel 
Carlisle were girls together was told. But the 
best of it all, the children thought, was when the 
lady from over the way took them home with her, 
and told them the boy and girl there should be 
their brother and sister, and they should live there 
henceforth ; for she, who had found again her best 
friend, would never more let her struggle with 
want alone. 

And so the children had gifts and dinner, and a 



THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY. 199 


merry, merry Christmas in the bright, warm, crim- 
son-liung room, which had seemed to them such a 
paradise of delights when they looked down into it 
from their fourth-story window through the falling 
shadows of Christmas Eve. 



HIS MOTHER’S BOY. 


HE days were growing very dark for George 



Graham. He had not known at first what 
it meant that black specks should so dance be¬ 
tween him and the page he tried to -read, that 
his eyes should ache so much, that all things 
should seem so strangely dim about him. It 
would have been better, no doubt, had he stopped 
work as soon as he felt these symptoms; but how 
could he? This was his last term at school, and 
if he passed his examination creditably, especially 
if he thoroughly mastered the bookkeeping he was 
trying so hard to conquer, he was to have a place 
in Deacon Solomon Grant’s store, with wages that 
would not only take care of himself, but greatly 
help his mother. 

His mother was a widow, and George’s love for 
her was a sort of passion of devotion. When he 



HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 201 

could scarcely talk, the first two words he put 
together were, “ Pretty mamma,” and ever since 
then she had been the first and fairest of created 
beings to him. He was very fond of Susie Hale, 
but Susie was only a nice girl, — a dear, sweet, 
good girl, such as any fellow would like; but his 
mother was the elect lady to whom were due his 
love, his care, his uttermost duty. 

Mrs. Graham was the kind of woman for a son 
to be romantic about. • She was only seventeen 
when George was born; and now, when he was 
sixteen and she was thirty-three, she was, so he 
thought, more beautiful than ever. She had been 
a pretty, rather helpless little creature all her 
life, — one of those women toward whom every 
man feels the instinct of protection. George’s 
father had felt it always, and had never allowed 
care to come near his dainty darling. His one 
great agony, as he lay dying, was that he must 
leave her almost unprovided for. That was when 
George was thirteen, and the boy would never for¬ 
get how his father had called him to his bedside, 
and charged him to take care of his mother. 



202 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“You are old enough to be her staff, even 
now,” the dying man had said, clinging to his boy’s 
hand. “You can be good to her in a thousand 
ways, save her a thousand cares, and in a few 
years more you can work for her, and keep her 
comfortably, as I have done.” 

George never forgot this trust for one moment. 
The plans he made in life were all for his mother’s 
sake — his future was to be spent in her service. 
He wanted to come out of school at the time of 
his father’s death, and try by all manner of little 
industries to help take care of the household, but 
his mother was too wise to permit this. She de¬ 
veloped a strength of mind and of body for which 
no one who saw her pink-and-white prettiness, — 
the prettiness of a girl still, despite all her years 
of married life, — would have given her credit. 

She saw clearly that if her boy’s education 
stopped at thirteen, he would be held in check 
all his life by his own ignorance — he must be 
drudge always, and never master. So she made 
him go to school three years longer. 

How she lived and kept up her refined little 



HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 


203 


home puzzled all lookers-on, and indeed she 
hardly knew herself. She lived simply; she was 
busy from morning till night. She sewed for one 
neighbor, ( she helped another through some season 
of sickness, she taught a naughty child who had 
worn out its welcome at school, but who could not 
wear out Mrs. Graham’s sweet patience, — and all 
these things helped. It is true, it was very often 
hard work to compass the simple necessaries of 
life, but she struggled on bravely. 

When George was sixteen he should come out 
of school, well trained, she hoped, for a business 
man, and then things would be so much easier. 
With this hope in view, she never repined. She 
kept her strength of soul and her sweetness of 
temper, her fresh beauty and her fresh heart. 
She kept, too, her boy’s adoration, — an adoration 
which was, as I said, the romance of his life. 

When the days began to grow so dark for 
George Graham, it was of his mother that he 
thought. So far he had no ambitions, no hopes, 
that were not centred in her. What if this grow¬ 
ing shadow about him was to increase Until all 



204 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


was dark, until dense night shut him in, — a night 
through whose blackness no star of hope could 
shine ? What if he must be no help to his 
mother, but only a burden on her for ever, a bur¬ 
den lasting through heaven only knew how many 
helpless years ? 

He rebelled against such a fate madly. He 
stretched out his hands toward heaven, he lifted 
the dumb prayer of his darkening eyes, but no 
help came. 

Dimmer and dimmer grew the world about 
him, more and more desperate the gloom of his 
hopeless heart. His scholarship had been so fine 
that his teacher hesitated to reprove his now con¬ 
tinual failures; and George said nothing of the 
increasing darkness around him, — nothing to his 
mother, for he felt that it would break her 
heart; nothing to teacher or school-mates, for 
it seemed to him his grief would be nothing to 
them. But one afternoon the crisis came. 

His recitation had been an utter failure, and, at 
last, his teacher spoke in severe terms of the 
neglect which had become habitual. No one who 



HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 


205 


was present that day — not even the smallest 
child — will ever forget the look of despair that 
swept over George Graham’s face, or the gesture 
of helpless anguish with which he stretched out 
his hands, as if to seek among them all some 
friend, as he cried, — 

“ God help me, sir! I have been going blind; 
and now I cannot see one figure in my book — I 
can hardly see your face.” 

There was a silence after this, through which 
came no sound but the audible beating of George 
Graham’s tortured heart. Then the master sent 
away the others, for school hours were nearly 
over, and tried his best to comfort his stricken 
pupil. It might not be so bad as he feared, an 
oculist might help him, perhaps it was only 
temporary. 

To all these well-meant consolations George 
listened in a sort of dreary silence. The words of 
the teacher entered his ears, but they did not 
reach his heart or kindle his hope. 

As soon as he could, he went away. He did 
not go straight home. How could he face his 



206 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


mother and tell her what he must tell her now, — 
what she would be sure to hear from others, if not 
from him ? He kept thinking how she would take 
it. Would not all the light go out of her face? 
Maybe she would faint away, as he remembered 
she had done when his father died. 

He sat down on a bank, a little removed from 
the road-side, a bank which overhung a swift and 
deep, yet narrow stream. 

An awful temptation came over him, — such a 
temptation as, thank Heaven! comes to few boys of 
sixteen, with the young, glad life running riot in 
their veins. He thought, what if he should die. 
then and there ? It seemed to him the one desir¬ 
able thing. To be sure, to die would be to leave 
his mother to fight her battle of life alone ; but 
also it would relieve her from the heavy burden 
he must needs be to her if he lived. The river 
rushing down there below invited him with its 
murmur. Should he seek refuge there, and let his 
mother hear that he was dead, before she heard 
that he was blind? He bent forward over the 
stream. Then he drew back, for a longing came 



HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 


207 


over him to go home first, and see his mother just 
once more; and then an exceeding bitter cry 
burst from his lips,— 

“a See her! What am I talking about? Do I 
not know I shall never see her again?” 

And a girl’s voice, soft and cooing and ten¬ 
der, — an utterly unexpected voice, — answered 
him, — 

“ Yes, 3 7 ou will see her again. Surety you will 
see her again.” 

The boy turned his face toward the sound. 

“ How did you come here, Susie Hale ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Don’t be angry, George,” the gentle voice 
entreated. “I waited for you. I could not go 
home till I had told you how sorry I was, and 
tried to comfort you.” 

“Comfort me!” There was a sort of scornful 
bitterness in the cry. “ How can I be comforted ? ; 
Do you think what it will be never to see the 
green earth or the blue sky, or any dear face any 
more, for ever and ever ? ” 

“But you will see them,” she said gently. 



208 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“ I did not mean that you must be reconciled to 
give up hope. I mean that you must take heart, 
and try to be cured. I have known peojde who 
could not see at all to be helped, and why not 
you? At least, you must try.” 

An evil mood was upon George Graham, and he 
answered harshly, — 

“ Where is the money to come from, if you 
please? It has been all mother could do just to 
live and she has struggled on, in the expectation of 
my being able soon to help her. She has no money 
for experiments. There is nothing for it but for 
ne to rest a dead weight upon her hands, or — die.” 

He said the last word with a sort of gasp. Su- 
ie Hale shivered. She drew closer to him. She 
ooked into his poor, tortured face, with her dark 
and tender eyes, and said very quietly, — 

“ You believe in God, George Graham, and you 
will not defy Him. If He means you to bear this 
you will bear it like a man, and not try to get rid 
of the burden. But I do not believe He does 
mean you to bear it; and I will not believe it till 
every means has been tried for your cure. Just 



HIS MOTHER'S BOY . 


209 


now, it seems to me, you ought to go home. 
Would you like your mother to hear this first 
from some one else ? ” 

He rose slowly. 

“ You are right,” he said, “ and you are a good 
girl. Good-by, Susie.” 

She did not try to go with him; she followed 
him only with her eyes. She was contented if she 
could but send him home in safety to his mother. 

His mother met him at the gate. When she 
took his hand in hers the poor fellow felt that she 
knew all. She was very quiet and self-controlled. 

“ Your teacher has been here,” she said, “ and 
he has told me. My darling, why have you sat in 
the darkness, and shut your mother out from any 
share in your trouble ? ” 

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you, mother!” he sobbed, 
with his head upon her breast, at last,—“I 
couldn’t, I thought it would break your heart.” 

“ Ah! that was because you did not know. If 
you should die and leave me alone in the world, 
that, indeed, would break my heart; but while I 
have you beside me, nothing can make me alto- 
14 



210 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


gether miserable, and nothing must make you so. 
There is help somewhere, and we will find it, please 
God ; or, if not, we will bear what others have 
borne, and find a way to lighten the darkness.” 

Meantime, Susie Hale had gone home full of an 
absorbing purpose. Somehow money must and 
should be raised to try what a skilful oculist 
could do for George Graham. 

Susie was the orphan niece of Deacon Solomon 
Grant, in whose store a place was awaiting George. 
She knew that she had a modest little fortune of 
her own, but it was all in her uncle’s hands, and 
without his consent she could not dispose even of 
her slender income. But would he not be per¬ 
suaded to let her have enough of her own money 
to accomplish her desire ? She asked him, using her 
utmost power of persuasion to touch his heart, 
but he refused with peremptory decision. He 
would n’t mind contributing moderately to a fund 
for young Graham’s help — he would not even 
mind letting her have five or ten dollars of her 
own for that purpose — but beyond that the duty 
of one neighbor did not go. And Deacon Solomon 



HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 


211 


shut his lips together as tightly as he buttoned up 
his pocket. 

Susie had in the world one treasure, — a dia¬ 
mond ring which had been her mother’s, with a 
stone white and clear as a dew-drop. This must, 
she knew, be worth three or four hundred dollars. 
It was her very own. She had meant to keep it all 
her life for her mother’s sake, but surely this great 
need of George Graham’s justified her in parting 
with it. 

She had one friend in Boston, — an old teacher, 
— in whose good faith and judicious management 
she felt implicit confidence, and to him she sent her 
mother’s ring, with a request that he would sell 
it as speedily and on as good terms as possible, 
and remit her the price of it in bank-notes, not in 
a check, and keep for ever the secret that she had 
disposed of it. 

It was a week after George Graham had given 
up hope, when a most unexpected hope came to 
him. A neighbor, going by from the post-office, 
handed in at the door a letter addressed to him. 
Mrs. Graham opened' it, for George’s vision had 



212 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


failed with every day, and his eyes were utterly 
useless now. 

“ George,” she cried, after a moment, in an eager, 
trembling voice, “ here are three one-hundred dol¬ 
lar bills, and this is the letter that comes with 
them : — 

“ ‘ This money is from a true friend of George 
Graham’s, and is to be applied to taking him to 
an oculist, in the hope that his sight may be 
restored. The giver withholds his name, both 
because he desires no thanks, and because he 
wishes to make the return of the money impossible.’ 

“It is from Heaven,itself! ” the mother cried. 
“ George, we will start for Boston to-morrow. I 
feel in my soul that you are to be cured.” 

The next day a mother and her blind son sought 
rooms at a quiet boarding-house, of which they 
had found the number in the advertisement col¬ 
umn of a city paper, and the day after that 
they were among the earliest patients of Doctor 
Annesley. The first examination of George’s eyes 
was unpromising enough. They would be worse 
before they were better; an operation might or 




HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 


213 


might not restore sight to them, but the time for 
it had not yet come. Meanwhile the doctor 
wanted to see him daily. 

Those were weary days and weeks that fol¬ 
lowed, both before the operation and afterward, 
when the poor eyes were carefully bandaged from 
the light, and mother and son sat day after day in 
the dark together, wondering, wondering, wonder¬ 
ing what the result would be. It was curious 
that the mother was always hopeful, and the son 
always despairing. At last it almost irritated him 
to hear her speak of hope to him; and one day he 
turned on her with the first burst of passionate im¬ 
patience she had ever experienced from him. 

“ Mother,” he said, “ for the love of Heaven do 
not talk to me as if it was a sure thing that I am 
going to see again. I want to think it doubtful, 
almost impossible. If you should make me ex¬ 
pect a sure cure, and then it should n’t come, 
don’t you see that I should go mad? I think I 
should dash my head against the wall. I can only 
live by expecting nothing.” 

After that the mother held her peace; but 



214 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


whenever she went out of that darkened room 
those who saw her marvelled at the light of joy in 
her eyes, the bloom of hope upon her cheeks. At 
last the time came — the bandage was removed. 
There was just one wild cry, “ Mother, I see you! ” 
and then George Graham lay at the doctor’s feet, 
swooning and helpless in his great joy. 

It was weeks yet before he went home again, 
but the good news preceded him. The mother 
wrote it to Deacon Grant, who had agreed still to 
keep the place in his store open, while awaiting 
the result of this experiment. 

The deacon read the letter in full family con¬ 
clave, with the slow deliberation of a man unused 
to correspondence. He little knew how his niece 
longed to snatch the paper from his hand and read 
it for herself; nor did he heed the tears that swam 
in her dark eyes. 

Deliberately he smoothed out the letter, and 
folded it. Deliberately he took off his spectacles, 
and wiped them, and put them on again. Then 
he said, with the half pompous, half solemn man¬ 
ner which became his position, — 




HIS MOTHER'S BOY. 


215 


“Well, well, I’m ready always to rejoice with 
those that rejoice; and I’m sure I’m thankful 
that the Widow Graham has n’t got to struggle 
with so much trouble as it looked as if Providence 
was laying on her ; but wherever she got that 
money the Lord knows.” 

Another letter came, afterward, to tell when the 
widow and her son were to return, and to ask 
Deacon Grant, in whose keeping the key of their 
house had been left, to put it in their door on that 
day as he was passing by to the store. 

It was Susie who walked over with the key, 
early in the afternoon, carrying with her a basket 
of dainties for the travellers’ supper, from Mrs. 
Grant, a woman who knew how to be a good 
neighbor, and to make life pleasant with cheap 
kindnesses. Susie’s black eyes danced, and her 
heart sang within her as she set the table in the 
little parlor and lighted a fire in the kitchen stove, 
ready to make a fresh cup of tea whenever the 
widow and her son should arrive. Then she 
dusted every thing; and then she gathered some 
of the flowers of September, — for already the sum- 



216 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


mer was over, — and put them in the vases on the 
mantel, and on the widow’s little round sewing- 
table. 

And at last the travellers came, as at last every¬ 
thing does come, if we wait long enough for it. 
They had expected to find an empty house; they 
found instead, warmth and brightness and good 
cheer and Susie Hale. 



DR. JOE’S VALENTINE. 


''"INHERE were lialf-a-dozen of the girls together, 
— pretty creatures, in the very first season 
of their long dresses, — the eldest not quite six¬ 
teen. They were all braids and puffs and fluffy 
curls, all loops and ruffles and ribbons, all 
smiles and dimples. It was the Saturday before 
Valentine’s Day, in a certain year of grace, of 
which I will not give you the precise date, but 
less than ten years ago, and more than five. Of 
the half-dozen girls, two are busy teachers now, 
two are married, one is playing mother to her 
brother’s little brood of orphan children, and the 
sixth, not less happy than the rest, has gone on to 
“the next country,” where they tell us she will 
never grow old, never be sick or sorry any more, 
— happy Bertha, whom, surely, God loved. 

But, that day in February, none of them 



218 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


thought much about the future: the present was 
enough, with its fun and frolic, its wealth of all 
the pleasures which girlhood holds dear. The six 
were passing the long day together. Two of them 
were sisters and belonged in one house, and the 
rest had come there to be with them; for they 
were all going to make valentines. They had 
made funny ones and foolish ones, tender ones, 
with just a little dash of satire in them, poetic 
ones and prosy ones; and at last it was dinner¬ 
time, a feast of all the things that school-girls 
love, and these were hungry girls. At least they 
were all hungry girls but Nelly Hunt, and she 
scarcely ate any dinner at all, she was so busy 
thinking. She was Bertha’s sister, and this was her 
home and Bertha’s, and it was to the girls’ own 
room that the little party went back again, after 
they had eaten and praised Mrs. Hunt’s dinner. 

“What are you thinking about, Nell?” Bertha 
asked, sitting on the arm of Nelly’s chair. 

“ These valentines,” Nelly answered slowly. 

“ Well, surely they need not make you sober,— 
they are absurd enough.” 



DR. JOE’S VALENTINE. 


219 


“Yes, and it’s just because they are so absurd 
that they make me sober. I was wondering why 
we could n’t just as well have said something to 
help somebody — to make somebody think — to do 
some good.” 

“ Nelly’s heroics ! ” cried Kate Greene flippantly. 
“ Miss Hunt as a moral reformer! ” 

Nelly blushed from her pretty ears to the roots 
of her sunny hair; but her eyes shone clear, and 
there was a ring of earnestness in her voice as she 
answered, — 

“ You can laugh if you will, but I mean what I 
say, and I’m going to try an experiment. I will 
write one boy a valentine, such as I think a girl 
ought to write, and I ’ll send it.” 

“So you shall,” Bertha said gently, — Bertha 
always was peacemaker, — “ and we ’ll all go away 
and see mamma and the baby while you write it. 
When it’s done you must call us.” 

“ Yes, and you must show it to us,” cried Kate 
Greene, as she went away ; “ that’s only fair. We 
promised this morning to show each other all we 
sent, and we sha’n’t let you off.” 



220 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


And then the five fluttered away like a flock of 
birds, and Nelly was quite alone. 

Her task was harder than she had imagined. It 
is only the old, perhaps, who are sage in counsel 
by nature. At any rate, to give good advice did 
not come naturally to pretty Nelly. But she had 
an idea of what she wanted to say, and at last sh< 
got it said. She had written and rewritten it, and 
finally concluded that she could do no better, and 
then copied it out into her neatest handwriting 
before she called the others. It was a little stiff, 
to be sure, and preachy and high-flown, but it 
sounded like a lofty effort and a complete suc¬ 
cess to the listening girls. This was what it 
said: — 

“My Valentine, — You will have plenty of 
fine speeches and praises, and, perhaps, of fun and 
fancy from others, so I shall not give you those, — 
I who have but one interest in you, namely, that 
you should be the best boy and the best man 
which it is possible for you to become. If you are 
selfish, if you are indolent, if you are mean, you 
will never be happy in your own society, until you 






Nelly Reading her 


Valentine. — Page 


220. 








































Dll. JOE’S VALENTINE. 


221 


have sunk so low that you don’t know the differ¬ 
ence between goodness and badness. But if you 
set out to be a gentleman and a man of honor 
and a faithful worker, you will do good deeds and 
live a happy life, and be worthy the everlasting 
esteem of Your Valentine.” 

Nelly read it with rising color and a little quiver 
about her mouth, which Bertha understood; but 
she read it with firm voice and careful, delibe¬ 
rate accent. 

“Then,” she said, when she had finished, “I 
shall burn up all the rest of my valentines, and 
send only this one ; for it is what I mean, in earn¬ 
est, and, as old Aunty Smoke says, ‘ Ef it don’t do 
no good, it can’t do no harm.’” 

“ To whom shall you send it, dear ? ” Bertha 
asked gently, a little subdued by Nelly’s epistolary 
success. 

“ I had n’t made up my mind,” Nelly answered 
thoughtfully; “ they all need it.” 

“ O, send it to Joe, my cousin Joe,” cried Kitty 
Greene. u He is staying with us, and he needs it 
— bad enough. If ever a boy was full of his 



222 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


pranks, Joe is, and if ever a boy tormented a girl’s 
life out, Joe does mine.” 

A color clear and bright as flame glowed on 
Nelly Hunt’s cheeks. Had she had dark-eyed Joe 
in her mind all the while ? She only answered 
very quietly,— 

“ I don’t mind. I had just as lief send it to Joe. 
That is, I ’ll send it to him if you ’ll promise, on 
your sacred honor, never in any way to let him 
know who wrote it.” 

“Oh, I will — true as I live and breathe I’ll 
never tell him, and never let him guess, if I can 
help it.” 

“ And all you girls ? ” Nelly asked, with the 
pretty pink glow deepening in her cheeks. “ Will 
you all promise ? ” 

And they all promised; for there was a sort of 
honest earnestness in Nelly’s nature to which they 
found it natural to yield. 

So the valentine was directed in Nelly’s most 
neat and proper manner to “ Mr. Joe Greene,” 
and was dropped into the post-office with the rest 
of the valentines the girls had written that day. 



DR. JOE’S VALENTINE. 


223 


On the fifteenth the six girls were all together 
at school, comparing notes and exchanging confi¬ 
dences. But Kitty Greene drew Nelly aside, and 
said, while they walked up and down the hall to¬ 
gether, their arms around each other as girls will, — 
44 I saw Joe get it, Nelly.” 

Nelly’s pretty cheeks glowed and her eyes shone 
like stars, but she asked no questions. Indeed, 
they were scarcely necessary, for Kitty was eager 
enough to tell her story. 

44 He got it, don’t you think, along with half-a- 
dozen others, and he read them all before he came 
to this one. I knew this, you know, by the shape 
of the envelope. When he came to it I saw him 
read it all through, and then I saw him go back 
and read it again. I heard him say to himself, — 
444 That’s an honest letter from some little saint.’ 
14 Then he came up to me and held it toward 
me, while I pretended to be very busy with my 
valentines. Then he asked, — 

“ 4 Do you know that handwriting, Kit ? ’ 

44 1 felt like an awful little liar, but I had prom¬ 
ised you. I stretched out my hand for it, and said 
carelessly, — 



224 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


“‘Why, ain’t it Sue’s?’ 

“ Sue is his sister, you know. So he thought I 
did not know who it came from, and he changed 
his mind, and put it into his pocket, and went off. 
When I teased him afterward to let me see it, he 
said, — 

“‘No ; there are some things a fellow would be 
a cad to show.’ 

“ So I saw it hit home, and well it might. It 
was a tremendous letter, Nelly.” 

And Kitty ended with a hug and a kiss, and a 
look of that loj^al admiration which a girl can give 
another girl now and then. 

When the spring came Joe Greene went away 
from Chester, and did not come back there any 
more. No doubt Nelly Hunt would have forgot¬ 
ten his very existence but for the valentine, which 
she could not forget. She used to blush, as she 
grew older, to think how “bumptious” it was, as 
she used to call it to herself. What was she , that 
she should have undertaken to preach a sermon to 
that boy? What if he remembered it only to 
think how presuming it was, and to laugh at it? 



DR. JOE'S VALENTINE. 


225 


But, luckily, he did not know from whom it came ; 
and with that thought she cooled her blushes. 

Nelly was twenty when Joe Greene came back 
to Chester again. And now he came as a physi¬ 
cian, just through his studies, and anxious to build 
up a practice. Soon his fame grew. His patients 
were among the poor at first, and he cured them ; 
and then richer people heard of it, and sent for 
him. But, while he took all the patients that 
came, he never gave up his practice among those 
who most needed him. His praise was in all their 
mouths. There had never been any doctor like 
this one. 

Nelly was Miss Hunt now, for Bertha had gone 
away from her into the other, unknown country, 
and Nelly’s grief had made her gentle heart yet 
more gentle, and her helpful spirit yet more 
helpful. 

Toward night, one summer day, she had gone to 
see an old woman who had been her nurse once, 
and had found her very ill, — quite too ill to be 
left alone, and certainly in need of a physician. 
So Nelly tore a leaf from her memorandum-book 
15 



226 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


and wrote on it a few lines, begging Dr. Greene 
to come at once, and then called to the first 
passer-by and entreated him to take it to the 
doctor. 

It was scarcely half an hour before Dr. Greene 
came in, quietly and gravely. He attended to his 
patient with that careful consideration which made 
all those poor souls whom he visited adore him. 
Then he turned to Nelly. 

44 Who will stay with her to-night ? ” he asked; 
44 for, indeed, she hardly ought to be left alone.” 

“ I shall stay,” was the quiet answer. 

44 Then come to the door with me, please, and 
let me give you your directions.” 

Nelly followed, and stood there, in the soft sum¬ 
mer dusk, — a pretty picture, with the wild-rose 
flush dawning in her cheeks, and a new light kin¬ 
dling her eyes. She listened carefully to all his 
injunctions, and then turned as if to go. But he 
put out a hand to detain her. 

44 How very much I owe to you! ” he said. 

44 You , how?” And a deep, deep crimson dyed 
Nelly’s face and throat. In that moment she 



DR. JOE’S VALENTINE. 


227 


thought of her “‘bumptious ” valentine, which had 
not crossed her mind before for a long time.' 

He looked at her with a smile in his eyes, but 
with a face that preserved all its respectful grav¬ 
ity. He took a red leather case out of his pocket, 
and from the case he took the very old valentine 
which Nelly remembered so well. Then he pro¬ 
duced the brief note she had written that after- 
nQon; and still there was light enough left in the 
day to. see them by, as he held them side by side; 

“Your hand has matured somewhat since this 
valentine was written,” he remarked quietly; 
“but some of these letters I should know any¬ 
where. No one could deceive me.” 

“I did not suppose you had kept that foolish 
thing,” Nelly said, with a pitiful little quiver in 
her voice, as if she were just on the point of burst¬ 
ing into tears. “ I am so ashamed ! ” 

Dr. Joe looked at her a moment, as she stood 
there in the waning light, — a lovely, graceful girl, 
from whom any man might be proud to win even 
a passing interest. So this was the woman, the 
thought of whom he had carried in his heart for 



228 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


years! If he had ever done any good thing, he 
was paid for it in the satisfaction of that hour. 

“Are you sorry,” he asked slowly, “that you 
have helped one man to be his best self? Those 
words of yours were to me like the voice of my in¬ 
most soul. Since then this paper has never left 
me, nor have I ever ceased to strive to be worthy 
of the esteem of my unknown 4 valentine.’ If ever 
I have been generous instead of selfish, brave in¬ 
stead of cowardly, strong instead of weak, it has 
been because I have remembered the words writ¬ 
ten here, and meant to live in their spirit. Are 
you sorry for that ? or do you grudge me the dear 
pleasure of thanking you? ” 

“ No, I’m not sorry, nor do I grudge you any 
thing; but it was a girl’s freak, and I am not 
worthy of so much praise and honor.” 

“ It was a good girl’s good intention,” he said 
almost solemnly. “ Let us be thankful that it suc¬ 
ceeded.” 

Nelly went back to the bedside of the old woman 
with a fluttering heart. How strange it seemed to 
think this sick woman was old enough to have 



DR. JOE'S VALENTINE. 


229 


outlived all anxieties except those about her pains 
and her supper ! Had not she been young once ? 
and had no one ever looked at her as Dr. Joe 
looked ? 

The next morning he came again. His medi¬ 
cine, a night's sleep, Nelly’s care, — something 
seemed to have given the poor old patient a fresh 
lease of life. There was no need that Nelly should 
stay with her any more ; but she went to see her 
daily, and it was curious how often Dr. Joe’s visits 
happened at the same time. 

One night the doctor had left his horse at home, 
and he and Nelly walked away together. They 
talked about the lingering sunset and the soft 
south wind and even the old woman; for Nelly, 
woman-like, was struggling desperately to keep 
Dr. Joe from saying what she desperately wanted 
to hear. But, at last, it came, — a half-blunt, half- 
awkward speech, yet with Dr. Joe’s honest heart 
in it,— 

“ I’ve lived all these years just to earn your 
esteem, and now I find I don’t care a thing about 
that unless I can also win your love.” 



230 


NEW BED-TIME STORIES. 


I think Nelly’s answer must have satisfied him, 
for she is Mrs. Joseph Greene now; and that val¬ 
entine — worn and old, but choicely framed —- 
always hangs over the doctor’s study table. 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON’S STORIES. 



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